


Team Playground Drabbles & Ficlets Collection

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 76
Words: 72,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7295626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles & ficlets feat. various combinations of team members. Brotp-centric although some (usually canon compat) romantic relationships may exist. Ratings will vary, but not generally higher than canon compat levels of violence, gore or sex.</p><p>Most recent chapters:<br/>- Daisy comes out to May, hurt/comforty, S4 UA</p><p>Not every fic suitable for this collection is in here as some are posted separately so if you're looking for something, prompt me and I'll write you something or find you something that suits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bus Kids

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also contemplating a Multishippers collection for those romantic rshps that aren't my main ships. FitzSimmons & Skimmons (Bioquake) already have separate collections.

You may also be interested in: [FitzSimmons Drabbles & Ficlets](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5863714/chapters/13515487), [Skimmons Drabbles & Ficlets](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5864041/chapters/13516015) (otp, brotp & ambig fics, specified in chap notes).

-

2x06 outtake (No prompt)  
Canon compatible. Angst/hurt/comfort.  
Skye (bc S2) & Simmons; Bus Kids (Fitz by reference); Fitzsimmons + Skye/Daisy

-

“Excuse me.”

Simmons kept her head down as she swept past Fitz – so close she could have touched him, but she didn’t. She ducked past Mack and escaped into the hall, and when she inhaled, her breath shook so hard that she had to clench a fist to stop it. 

The hangar beckoned her, the Bus sitting lonely in the same place it had been, she imagined, for months. The cargo ramp was already open, so she all but fled to the place that had been _their_ place - her sanctuary, her home - not so long ago. 

She had been expecting it to feel different, of course: it wasn’t being used, it wasn’t lit, it wasn’t _theirs_ anymore…but she was expecting it to _be there._

Hardly any of the old fittings remained. SHIELD was low on tech since the whole Hydra mess had cut off their resources; whatever they’d had already would have been moved into the new lab. The new, indoor, non-mobile lab.Left behind was a hollow garage, decorated with the guts of a motorcycle, of all things. 

Simmons clenched her fist again, and turned to leave, but the staircase caught her eye.

She took her time with it, until she couldn’t bear to anymore and broke out on the top landing in a few steps of a run. An afterthought, she guessed she’d been hoping for cleaner air up here, but none was to be found.

The carpet was dark. The halls were dark. The shattered glass had been cleaned up but nothing had been repaired. Their bunk doors hung open, revealing sterile, empty rooms. She knew this. She’d been there when they’d all moved out. She should have been expecting it. But Fitz’ bunk was so close…and so _clean._

Standing in the doorway now, it was hard to believe they had lived in these tiny spaces so happily for so long, She had never really minded it - the lack of space was a price she was willing to pay for the travel - but Fitz had always been a more expansive person than she was. She’d always been telling him to just put his bloody clothes away. Every now and then, when a sufficient pile had built up, he’d shove it all into a drawer, unless she insisted on him hanging up every individual shirt. That’s why he’d given up on blazers so early: a cardigan could afford to get crinkled. Yet for some reason, he’d never been averse to wearing ties. 

Not before, anyway.

Her fist clenched of its own volition this time; not an attempt to gain control but a threat of the loss of it. Ward and all the tortures she’d devised for him flooded through her mind. She blamed him for Hydra and Fitz and Skye and the Academy burning. For wiping her credentials, her identity, for making sure she could never leave the SHIELD-HYDRA fold because outside those circles she was either a terrorist or MIA. On bad days, and this was not the worst, the list went on. She blamed him for too much, she knew this, and yet she _could not blame him enough_. Her veins ran hot as she remembered the icy wind whipping her face, his arms around her, protecting her as she fell. She remembered how vulnerable she had been, dangling in midair, anchored only to him. He could have pulled out a knife just as easily as that antiserum. In fact, he could have let Fitz jump, and they might have gone down together.

The fury left her veins as quickly as it had come. Her shoulder bumped softly against Fitz’ doorframe. She brushed the pads of her fingers against her cheek, where she had kissed him and told him _you’re the hero._ Where she had pressed their faces together and given him all the love she could muster and feared that she might never see him again. Her touch was light, but her cheek stung as if she had cut it open.

“Hey, Simmons. What brings you to my crumbled abode?”  
  
Simmons closed her eyes. She could feel the tears on her face now, and they burned. She could not wipe them away or disappear now. Not unnoticed. She should have heard Skye coming. She should have left earlier, or found somewhere else, or just kept it together. But she hadn’t, so now what?

As the length of time between Simmons’ registration of her presence, and response to her albeit ill-humoured question dragged on, Skye dropped her already half-hearted smile and took a hesitant step forward.

“Simmons?” she repeated. “What’s up? Did you want me to take a look at that hard drive, or…”

Simmons shook her head.

“Fitz-“  
  
She meant to say, ‘Fitz has it’, but her voice cracked so terribly on that one word that she thought it best not to continue. Who knew what could come tumbling out.

A gentle weight settled on her shoulder. The crack in her voice spread through her entire being, and as she turned her tear-streaked face to Skye, it splintered, and a gasping sob finally broke through. Skye wrapped her arms around Simmons and drew her in, prying her gently away from the doorframe. Simmons fell against Skye, sobbing, and grasped at the back of her shirt, and at her shoulder, and buried her nose in the base of her neck. Skye, quiet and still, pressed her cheek to Simmons’ hair, and waited out the storm. And if a few tears of her own slipped out, maybe that was a good thing. 


	2. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during 2A. Angst.  
> Canon compat / UA. MCD. Blood. Angst.  
> Skye & Simmons, Fitz & Simmons, Skye & Fitz, Bus Kids, Team Bus, Team Bus + Trip

_Bang._

It hits his heart like a bullet. His lungs freeze.

“Simmons is down,” Skye reports, her heart hammering. “Cover me.” Trip and Coulson nod. She charges for the empty space, and bullets fly.

Fitz holds his breath. On the other side of the line, there’s a gasp, a groan, a crack. Then static.

Slowly, he moves a hand up to his ear and adjusts the position. Adjusts the volume.

_“Hello. Come in. Simmons.”_

Skye lays her weapon by Simmons’ side. The scientist’s skin is pale. Her face is smeared with sweat and dust and blood. She attempts to hold a hand against the wound, but with no regard for her violently shaking fingers, her pale pink sweater turns red.

“We need the plane, now,” Skye demands.

“S-Skye.” Simmons’ voice shakes as her body is wracked with seizures. Skye immediately puts her own hands in place. It only seems to make it worse. Blood runs like water over her fingers. But Jemma’s hand is free.

Grimacing against the pain - and ignoring the several shades in colour that Skye’s face drops - Simmons recovers the earpiece that dropped when she fell.

“Fitz -” she chokes. “Do you read me?”

 _“Jemma, thank God.”_ His voice is even more muffle by the semi-disembowelled tech.

“Nothing to worry about, just got the jitters. And possibly minor reconstructive surgery.” Her gasp sounds a little like laughter. It tries to, at least.

“Anyway, my hands are disagreeing with me so I’m gonna have to give you over to May on 7-2-0.” She lets go of the button to take a deep breath. Skye’s heart begins to sink as Fitz’ voice comes through again.

_“Okay well don’t - don’t do that again. And put pressure on it.”_

“Oh, Fitz.”

Jemma’s fingers fumble and drop the earpiece. Her voice cuts out - from weakness, from disappointment, nobody can tell. It is at this point that Skye realises the violent contractions have faded into half hearted shudders.

“What do I do?” she frets. “Do I do CPR? I’m an idiot I totally should have been doing CP-”

Simmons shakes her head - just once, ever so slowly, but it’s enough.

“My organs are failing.” Her voice is very quiet, but as always, clear. “It wasn’t- a bullet.”

Skye follows Simmons’ gaze to the floor by her elbow. Tiny fragments of metal litter the concrete. Broken tin. Pieces of coin. Nails. Skye’s heart stutters.

Engines roar.

“Thank God for Tripson,” Skye insists. “The Bus is here. You’ll be fine. ‘Things like this happen from time to time’, remember?”

“Terrible accent.” Simmons sighs and her eyes flutter, tempted to close.

“You can let go now,” she tells Skye. “Tell Fitz…I’m sorry I left.”

The hacker shakes her head in anger, in desperation, in disbelief.

“You’re not- But you can’t? Fitz. You said-”

Simmons smiles.

“I’m getting better at it.”

Jemma Simmons’ eyelids rest at last. Skye lets her hands fall away slowly. She has to remind herself to breathe.

Then she hears the footsteps. And the beautiful Scottish ranting.

“Gone and got yourself shot now. Bloody fantastic. I told you this was gonna happen, didn’t I, but you were all…”

Inside her chest, Skye’s heart works for each beat. Slowly, she stands up, but she can’t bring herself to move away; maybe if she stays, she can protect him. Or something.

“…Stuck me with the bloody Cavalry, kept stopping me every sentence to knock the daylights out of people - I swear to God, Jemma, if you ever-”

Fitz stops.


	3. Skye & Simmons & May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post 2A Finale. Prompt: "May bonding with Jemma & Skye."  
> Canon compat. Angst/hurt/comfort.  
> Each of them & Trip (by reference), Skye & Simmons, Skye & Simmons & May, Mamma May + her ducklings.

_A woman is like a teabag:_  
_You never know how strong it is until you put it in hot water_  
_– Eleanor Roosevelt._

-

The lights were on, but the room felt dark as Simmons sorted through her old friend’s belongings. She was glad for the morbid curiosity that kept her standing, browsing, jotting mental notes about Trip’s life. Skye wasn’t handling it so well: she’d lasted a little while, but it had only taken them finding the camera with photos of their last karaoke-dance party to send her back into the suffocating sorrow she’d been fighting off for so long. She sat on Trip’s bed, hugging her knees, breathing shaky as she recovered from another bout of sobbing.

“I’m sorry,” she choked, shaking her head as she wiped her cheeks again.

Simmons hid her face, wishing she could be sorrier for her lack of tears. She wanted to cry, she really did, but once she let that barrier fall, she wasn’t sure if she’d make it out the other side. So she flashed a quick, sad, nostalgic smile in Skye’s direction.

“I was going to ask him out,” Simmons said. “Before all this…I was…”

She ran her shaking hand across the cover of _Songs of Innocence and of Experience._ She picked it up, and deposited it on the growing pile of classic literature she was compiling on Trip’s desk. The room was positively filled, almost overrun, with old files and memorabilia, TV, film and comic merchandise, and every now and then, a classic novel or poetry anthology. It shouldn’t have surprised her, but Trip was a man of many interests. She’d have liked to ask him more about them.

She swallowed and moved on.

“He never believed you’d really left, you know,” Skye sniffed. “He said it sometimes, to make the rest of us feel better, but I don’t think he believed it. Ugh, Simmons, I said some awful things. Some really awful things. I can’t even-“ She shook her head, and wiped her eyes again. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I walked away. I was the one who didn’t explain myself. I did walk out on you. And Fitz-“ Simmons’s voice broke, and she swallowed hard, but Skye caught it.

“Hey, you did the best thing you could think of.”

“I know,” Simmons said, her voice wavering violently. “But it still – it still _-“_  

The last word dropped from her lips and from her mind as her hands, desperately seeking distraction, pulled up a worn, sepia photograph of a woman Simmons instantly recognised as none other than Peggy Carter, founder of SHIELD, with a bright yellow Post-It note bearing the message: _give to Simmons_ in Trip’s merry cursive. 

“What?” Skye asks, after a few seconds of silence.

 _Breathe,_ she tells herself. _Just. Breathe. Just._

A sob shook her before she could stop it. A hand flew up to her mouth to physically hold the next one in.

“God, Simmons-“ 

Skye sprung up from the bed, but at that moment there was a knock at the door. 

“You girls mind company?” May asked. 

Skye, frozen in movement halfway across the room, glanced at May, then at Simmons, and back. Simmons inhaled deeply, pressing her sorrow and anger and fear down against her diaphragm. The burning tears turned cold, and she blinked them away, and smiled.

“Not at all.”

Her smile lingered, a little too happy, for a little too long, and she saw May’s eyes soften.

“Jemma,” May said. “Sit down. I’ll do this.”

She held her hand out for the picture in Simmons’ hand, and Simmons - disappointed her cover was blown, however glad she was to drop something of the ruse - bowed her head and handed it over. May ran her eyes over the image, and when she saw the message in the corner, her lips parted. She looked over the picture to Simmons, who was still hiding her face, and then across the room to Skye, who had dropped her running position now, and had one hand at the opposite elbow, hugging herself against the onslaught of emotions. May sighed. 

“Alright. Tea time, let’s go.”

Simmons and Skye shared a morose look. Neither of them moved. May whipped the picture so that it followed the angle of her point. She jabbed it at Simmons, then at Skye.

“Mandatory tea break. Both of you. Kitchen. Now. Quick march.”

–

The air was still and quiet. Simmons leant against the bench, her fingers braced around the mug like claws. She took deep, slow breaths, impatient for the scent of calming steam to fill her lungs. Shoulders slumped, Skye sat at the island bench. She tapped the spoon against the mug, and then the bench top, then put it down and used her fingers instead, so as not to break the silence.

After an eternity, the kettle whistled, and May – upright, methodical, calm and fluid – picked up the kettle, opened the teapot, and poured the water over the leaves in a slow, circular motion. Skye watched the stream around and around, and stopped tapping with a huff. In the same moment, Simmons put her empty mug down on the bench.

“What is the point of this again?” Skye asked.

“May, I appreciate properly brewed tea as much as the next person, but-“

May held up a hand. The Hand of No, Skye had called it once. The younger women shared a look. 

In silence, May brought the teapot to the island bench. She returned to the bench on which she had been preparing, and picked up one cup and saucer, and brought it over. She walked back, and brought another. Back again, and brought a third. Her steps were silent, her breathing even. Simmons glanced at the mug she had put down. It was one of her favourites. She’d really been looking forward to using it again. But this was May’s tea, so, May’s rules.

However frustratingly ritual those rules may be. Which had not bothered Simmons before. She bit her lip and approached the island bench, coming to stand behind Skye.

“I’m more of a coffee person,” Skye said, trying not to pull a face as May poured the strange-smelling, greenish-brown water into the cups she had set out. But she knew her objection was falling on selectively deaf ears. Besides, if she wanted to master the art of Melinda May, she should relish this rare insight.

And the even more rare one that followed: May let out an audible, and slightly but noticeably shaking breath, and braced her arms against the bench.

Simmons frowned.

“May-“

“Jemma.” 

Simmons took a seat beside Skye, watching her unofficially adopted SO compose herself. It was so strange for them to see that – for May to let them see that – that Simmons pinched the skin at her wrist. She felt a sharp pain. She looked at Skye, but Skye was too distracted by May’s half-hidden face. 

“I’m not going to pretend I’m good at this,” May said quietly, still staring at the teapot, her face hidden behind hair. Her voice was low, in an effort to remain stable. It had the breath of her mentees bated, hanging. “But Trip was important to us. Is important to us. And losing someone important is…hard.”

Slow, even breaths. Simmons felt bile rise in her throat. She knew the twisted, guilty sadness that she could see tearing May up right now. She’d forgotten, she’d allowed herself to forget, that May could feel something like that. 

Skye knotted her fingers together, and in the silence before May’s next sentence, she clenched her hands tighter. How could she have caused so much pain?

“Trip,” May said, “was good for me. He sat in that cockpit beside me and he made me feel better. He never pushed when he knew better. He made me feel happy.  Sometimes he even made me feel like myself.” She was starting to rock. She slowed herself, took another deep breath, nodding to herself to continue. Skye and Simmons watched and listened, stunned and enraptured.

“…And when I felt like that,” May continued, “I mean…feeling like that. It made me remember what I’ve lost, in a different way. It – It made me think, about you two, about what you see in me.”

 Simmons opened her mouth. Against the bench, May moved just one finger of the Hand of No, and gritted her teeth. Instantly, Simmons was reminded -  _No no no no, Jem- Jemma, just – It’s hard enough to get the words out._ Her gut twisted and she closed her mouth.

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” May said. Her voice was scarcely louder than a whisper, but it was not quiet, against the pin-drop silence. “And a lot of it, I hope you never have to find out. But sometimes I worry that I’m not…that I’m not _teaching_ you right. I want you to know that it’s okay to have these emotions, and it’s okay to do something with them. I hurt myself, to do this to myself. It was the best way I could see. Maybe it was the best way. Maybe it was the only way…But I’d give  _anything_ not to let it happen to you. Honestly, anything.”

She looked up, and there were tears in her eyes. A few of them broke free when she blinked, and slipped down her face. May did not move a hand to stop them. 

For the first time since she’d burst free from the rock, Skye could feel her heart, hammering in her chest. It was unreal in the way that could only be real, because there’s no way she could have made this up. _Sacrifices have to be made._ That was the May in her head, still cold and calculating after all this time. How could she have been so cruel, so neglectful in her characterisation? _You don’t think I feel anything,_ she remembered May saying once. She felt the tears begin to roll down her own cheeks, apologizing for a thousand things for which it was probably too late to make up.

May lowered her eyes again. Her hair did not fall the same way this time, did not cover her face as well, and the internal struggle between facing up to them and hiding was clear on her face. 

“Skye,” she said, “I’m your S.O. I’m your superior. I was supposed to protect you. Simmons – _Jemma._ I…I don’t know if Coulson told you but…I chose you for this mission. The whole reason you and Fitz are out here in the first place is because of me. I picked Ward, I vetted him, and I passed him with flying colours. I failed you both. All three of you. And I’m-” Her voice very nearly broke. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry, too." Skye stood up, tears streaming down her face even as she wiped them away for the umpteenth time with her sleeve.

“I’m sorry,” Simmons repeated, bowing her head. She stood too, her own hands shaking, fingers curling around each other restlessly as she fought the compulsion learnt for protection to wipe her tears away as they fell.

As if of one mind, Skye and Simmons moved around opposite ends of the island bench to embrace their mentor. They huddled themselves under her arms like ducklings under her wings, and May found, oddly, that it was easier to breathe like this. She let her head fall against Simmons’, and lightly stroked Skye’s hair, where it was far enough down her back for May’s arm to reach from this position.

“I’m sorry,” May finally said. 

–

They held each other until their breaths fell into synchronisation. Then Skye sighed off the gravity, and broke formation. 

“So,” she said, “we gonna drink this stuff or is it just here to sit around and look pretty?”

In response, she got the Melina May equivalent of rolled eyes from the other two faces in the room.

“Now you sound like _my_ SO,” May grumbled, pushing Skye’s teacup toward her and taking her seat opposite Skye and Simmons. 

“And who was good enough to SO the illustrious Melinda May?” Skye wondered. Simmons, of course, knew the answer. Her eyes sparkled, the fires of her insatiable curiosity rekindled. May recognised that hungry expression, begging _tell me everything,_ from the face of a child she had invited onto a Bus a lifetime ago. It warmed her heart, and she cracked a smile. In the best imitation she could pull off with so little practice, she began, 

“Peggy Carter, founder of SHIELD, _happens_ to be British…”


	4. Skye & Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in S2.  
> Canon compat. Light/Fluffy.  
> Skye/Daisy & Hunter

“Ow.”  
  
“What?”

“Shut up, nothing, I’m fine, it’s just a graze.”

“It’s a bullet!”

“It just skimmed me I’m _fine_ now _shut up.”_

Lance Hunter bites his tongue. Skye’s face is screwed up as she examines a wound on her shoulder in dim light.

“Are you _sure_ you’re fine?” Hunter insists after a moment. 

“Bad guys. Return fire maybe?” Skye bites her lip, ignoring her stinging shoulder, and focuses on the incoming fire in an effort to get Hunter to leave her alone. She lifts herself enough to look over the wall of the garden bed. There’s a truck not too far off, but black-clad Hydra agents hover around it, waiting for their Shield targets to resurface. She ducks back out of sight. 

“Can you see the truck? Can you cover me?”

Hunter dives forward all of a sudden, all but throwing Skye to the ground as the pavement behind him shatters.

“They’ve got snipers. They know where we are, they’re pinning us,” he says, pulling himself up to sit next to Skye, rather than across her.

“Great.” Skye sighs. “They can’t get the angle because of the flower bed, right? But if we move we’re toast. Brilliant.”

Hunter bites his lip and looks down, then around, thinking.

“Wait, you got mirrors?” 

 _“A_ mirror.” Skye pulls a device from her pocket, a listening device built to look like a compact mirror. Hunter takes it.

“I’ll cover you. Can you run?” 

“Hunter. It was a _graze_ on my _shoulder._ Please chill. I’ll cover _you_ if you’re so worried.”

“I’m not worried, why would you think I was worried? I’m the one letting you run out into a hail of bullets right now.”

“’Letting’?” Skye raises a sardonic eyebrow. Hunter huffs. 

“Fine. But- shit!” Dirt erupts from a bullet entering the garden bed above them, and Hunter ducks and instinctively reaches his arms toward Skye. She’s already gone, feet pounding the pavement like there’s no tomorrow. He leaps up after her, whipping a stolen second pistol from his belt as soon as the first one runs out of ammo, and firing at anything that moves.

Skye dives into the back of the van. Bullets rattle the door as Hunter pulls it closed after them, but none of them break through. Skye squeezes through the open cab, into the driver’s seat, and, pleased to find the dashboard already gutted, hotwires the car and charges forward, scaring a few Hydra agents off their feet.

“Oh _shit!”_ Skye exclaims, screwing up her face and sucking in a breath as they lurch off the pedestrian mall and onto the street, to the disdain of oncoming traffic. 

“What?” Hunter’s face might have dropped a few shades in colour. Skye hammers the steering wheel with the heel of her hand and lets off another few inaudible curses for good measure before explaining:

 “This is May’s jacket.”


	5. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fitzsimmons + ‘You left your number in the library book I just borrowed AU’  
> Academy Era + Skye AU. Fluff.  
> Fitz & Skye, FitzSimmons + Captain Shipper Skye, Bus Kids

“Huh. That’s weird.”

“What?” Skye chewed on a Twizzler and raised an eyebrow at Fitz as they headed out of the library. “I seriously don’t understand how you don’t like these things.”

“I seriously don’t understand how you do. Red liquorice is so much better. But here, look.” He pulled out a small yellow card that someone had wedged so hard into the pages that it had stuck in the spine for a moment. On it, were ten digits scrawled in bright blue.

“Ooh.” Skye waggled her eyebrows. “It’s a _guuuuurl.”_

“What? How do you know it’s a girl?”

“Please. It’s a girl’s handwriting. Plus, guys don’t do the whole subtlety thing. They’ll cat-call you, court you, serenade you – none of this mystery admirer stuff. Unless of course they’re stalkers. In which case, ditch their asses. Or gay, maybe. Might be easier than getting straightzoned right to the face. So two out of three times, possible win. I like those odds. You should call.”

“I don’t know…”

“Look, they’re obviously after someone with specific interests. I mean, if I was looking for a casual hook-up, I wouldn’t stick my digits in ‘Applied Quantum and Statistical Physics, 4th Edition’.”

“That’s because you don’t know what applied quantum physics _is_.”

“No, it’s because I’d go for something that people would actually _read_. It could be something totally innocent. It could get you a job. Or it could get you a date. You should totally call it.”

“I’m not gonna call it.”

“Call it. Call it. Call it.” Skye interrupted her own chanting to take another bite of Twizzler, humming as she chewed and circled Fitz. Her hand now free, she snuck Fitz’ phone from his pocket, and began plugging the digits in.

“Wha- hey!” Fitz stopped, and swiped uselessly for the phone. It was already ringing. Skye, smiling like a snake, held it out to him.

“I’m gonna kill you,” he hissed, taking it from her. “This had better be the answering machine or I swear to God-“

_“Hello?”_

(“Ooh, she sounds pretty.”)

_“Hello? This is Jemma Simmons…”_

“Uh, hi.”

(“Eloquent as always, Leopold.” He shoved the book at her.)

“Hi, I’m Fitz. I- uh, I found your number in Applied Physics. At the library, I mean. In a book. Was there a reason it was there, or…”

“No reason in particular. But I guess, now that we’re here, I could use your help with something. Are you free this afternoon? We could meet for coffee and talk about it. 3 o’clock, Hannigan Hall?”

“Sure. Sounds great.”

“Excellent!”

Skye screamed silently as he hung up.

“Leopold. Arthur. Reginald. Fitz -”

“You know, my name’s bad enough without you adding random ones.”

“- I believe you officially have a date.”


	6. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: FitzSimmons + ‘my best friend got me drunk last night and I accidentally sent you a nude and we’ve only been dating for like a week please don’t open that text message AU’  
> Academy Era + Skye AU. Fluff. Shenanigans + innuendo.  
> Skye & Simmons, Fitzsimmons + CaptainShipper!Skye, Bus Kids

Simmons shook back her ponytail and picked up a tray, slipping into line behind a familiar face.

“You’re up early,” she remarked. Skye turned to her, unusually peppy for this time of the morning. In fact, unusually awake. She gave Simmons a sly smile.

“I wanted to see how it went last night.”

“How…what went?”

They slid down the line, and Skye forked as many pancakes onto her plate as the serving fork could bear. Simmons reached for a yoghurt, as Skye snorted quietly with laughter. Simmons glared.

“What did you do?”

“Oh, nothing.” Skye was barely even trying to keep the grin off her face. “Who was I to stand between a girl and her third round of shots? You were kicking those boys’ asses. It was great.” But not as great as this is about to be.

“You let me have three rounds of shots?” Well that explained the headache. Simmons dumped extra strawberries in her bowl, suddenly unsure of how much yoghurt she was going to make it through this morning.

“I let you do a few things you may soon regret.”

Skye glanced back toward the doorway, where Engineering specialist Leopold Fitz had just joined the back of the line. He had his backpack over one shoulder, his laptop bag draped across him, his tie sticking out at an odd angle, and his nose in his phone. She swallowed a squeal of excitement, just waiting for the change of expression.

“Oh no.”

Simmons had pulled out her own cell, and was frantically scrolling down a long list of mostly-nonsensical drunk texts and drunk dials, mostly to Fitz. At the end was a photo. A rather lewd photo.

A very lewd photo.

“Skyyyye,” she whimpered. “Why would you let me do that?”

“You gave me a speech about a woman’s right to do whatever she wanted with her body…and it finished somewhere around cream and chocolate sauce, I got lost a little in the middle there.”

Simmons groaned.

“It’s just a matter of time…”

Simmons dragged Skye out of the line. “Stop him. Please stop him. I beg you.”

“You stop him!”

“I can’t stop him, I’ll be weird!”

“I dunno, I don’t really know him…”

“You’re in his coding class, aren’t you? Think of something. Anything I beg you please. I’ll buy your breakfast. And lunch. And I’ll do all the cleaning for a month.”

“Well, I doooo haaaate cleeeaaning.” Skye pulled her phone out of her pocket and turned it slowly.

“Two months?”

“Done.”

Skye tapped the number 2 on her speed dial, and gave Simmons a grin that could only be described as “shit-eating.” And Simmons couldn’t even hate her for it.


	7. Simmons & Bobbi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3A. Canon compat.  
> Fluff, hurt/comfort.  
> Bobbi & Simmons. bonus Papa Coulson reference because reasons.

“…So, basically,” Simmons concluded, “it’s just a new function on the –“

She cut herself off, one hand over her stomach and the other poised to grab something, her head tilted to listen for a threat as her other senses made the room dip and swoop.

Bobbi frowned.

“You okay?”

Bobbi eased her way into sitting from her leg press as Simmons tried to wave her off, and staggered.

“Woah, woah, sit down.”

Bobbi stood, and steered Simmons to where she had been sitting. Trying not to limp, she retrieved a chair from the other side of the room and Simmons gratefully switched into that, allowing Bobbi to take the press machine again.

“It’s nothing,” Simmons explained, when Bobbi did not resume her exercise. “It just happens sometimes. I get dizzy. It’s the – it’s the gravity, I think. It’s different here.”

Simmons’ eyes dropped from Bobbi, her frown deepening as the hand over her stomach clenched the material of her shirt.

“You’re not going to be sick, are you?” Bobbi wondered. “I don’t think Coulson’s gonna be happy if you upchuck on his mats.”

She said it with a teasing smile, which Simmons reciprocated as she met Bobbi’s eyes again.

“No,” Simmons remarked proudly. “I have a very strong stomach. Don’t you worry about that.”

Bobbi raised her eyebrows, impressed with Simmons’ determination, and rolled back into position for more exercise. She lay there for a moment, but didn’t bend again. She sat back up, and turned toward Simmons instead.

“What did you eat over there? If you don’t mind talking about it, I mean.”

Simmons shrugged.

“Fungus, mostly.”

Bobbi screwed up her nose.

“It’s not so bad!” Simmons insisted. “I mean…six months of it was pretty awful, but the fungus itself, it was like mushrooms. Made for good soup… Every day.”

Simmons sighed, as the monotony of it, and the bland taste she had long memorised, came back to her. She swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the taste. Trying to get rid of the memory. Just before Bobbi could articulate a response, she latched onto a different memory instead.

“And the Monster Plant!”

Bobbi almost jumped at the sudden animation of Simmons’ face and body. She covered it up well, with a smile and a curious, challenging raised eyebrow.

“Monster Plant?”

“Yes! There was – well, I was looking for water, actually, but let’s not go into that – I found this pond. Went for a swim. All of a sudden BAM something’s trying to kill me. I got away, obviously, and then I got to thinking…whatever’s trying to kill me, must be alive, right?”

“Right.”

“Right! So I made this knife…axe…thing…and I climbed back in the water like an idiot because I was very, very hungry and let’s face it I was going to die anyway, and I did it! I killed the plant! And I cooked him and ate him. Tasted worse than the mushrooms, if we’re being honest. Probably tasted worse than anything I’ve eaten in my entire life. But I was alive. Honestly, I could hardly believe it.”

Simmons’ eyes were on the verge of going distant again. Bobbi decided not to mention that she’d noticed Simmons not eating, and hoarding food. She decided not to bring up the knife that Fitz had mentioned; not to ask Simmons how, if nothing was alive over there to pose a threat, she had built up such a strong defensive reflex. Instead, she stood, and stretched.

“Speaking of food,” Bobbi prompted, “I could eat. I reckon you could too. Come on.”

Simmons shrugged.

“I’m alright,” she protested. “I should probably be getting to work, actually.”

Bobbi shook her head.

“Dizziness. Blood sugar. Science. Chop chop, let’s go.”

Simmons rolled her eyes.

“It’s the gravity, I’m telling you.”

“Then why did it go away when you got excited? Hm?”

“That’s blood _pressure,_ not blood sugar.”

“I’m not a doctor.” Bobbi raised her hands, innocent. “But still. Food is good. Coulson had an order of fresh fruit coming in soon, too.”

Simmons’ ears pricked up at that. Bobbi grinned.

“Wanna check if it’s here yet?”

She wasn’t quite running circles around Bobbi yet, but at least it got Simmons out of the chair, and smiling. She hovered by Bobbi’s side, with just a glimmer of impatience, born of excitement. Trying to feed it, Bobbi sped up, and Simmons scolded –

“Don’t limp!”

Bobbi rolled her eyes, and took exaggeratedly slow, but even steps toward the doorway until Simmons rolled her eyes. She accelerated to a normal pace, and Simmons skipped ahead.

“Come on! We have to get to it before the boys do or there’ll be nothing left! I hope there’s apricots. Or pears, I haven’t had a pear in so long _ _…”__

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Bobbi promised, accelerating a little more as Simmons rounded the corner into the kitchen. Somebody had left the box of fruit on the bench – probably on purpose, bless them – and Simmons was rummaging through it with single-minded determination. Pears, apples, and even a mango had been unloaded onto the bench, and as Bobbi watched, Simmons pulled out peaches, cumquats, some kiwi fruit, and a pineapple… Coulson must have just walked down the fresh fruit isle and grabbed everything he’d found.

Suddenly, Simmons gasped.

“Bobbi! Look!”

Like the Holy Grail, she raised into Bobbi’s line of vision, a gloriously ordinary punnet of blueberries.


	8. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fitzsimmons + CaptainShipper!Skye.  
> Future fic (written from the past). Fluff, innuendo (T).  
> Prompt: "I just caught you guys making out and I’m fangirling but you’re trying and failing to convince me it’s not what it seems."

There’s a lapse in the meeting. Coulson glances at his watch.

“Someone want to check if Fitzsimmons have finished with those samples?”

Skye, always eager to steal a few minutes away from a boring meeting, almost jumps out of her seat. When she rounds the corner into the lab a minute later, she almost jumps out of her skin.

It’s Fitzsimmons. But it’s Fitz with Simmons propped against a lab bench. Simmons with one hand in his shirt and the other in his hair. It’s Fitzsimmons, making out for dear life.

No, no – _snogging._ (They are British, after all.)

Skye makes a sound that translates approximately to _“HOLY MOTHER OF BATMAN”_ and slams her hand over her mouth, even though it’s her throat that’s giving her away.

Instantly, Fitzsimmons scramble apart. Fitz’ curls stick up where she’d grabbed at them. Simmons tugs her shirt down, and then tugs Fitz’ down to match.

“Skye. Hello. What a surprise.”

“Yeah, I should think so.” Skye holds her hand over her mouth, spluttering laughter. There’s so much she could say that nothing is coming to mind except _Fitzsimmons. Snogging._ “So – like – was that supposed to be for science or…”

“Yes, for science,” Simmons says, nodding.

“Uh huh. Fitz, you’re awfully quiet over there. Daydreaming?”

“What?” Fitz’s eyes snap into focus. “Uh, science, yeah.”

“What, like, finding the best angles? Spreading communicable diseases via body fluid? Finding out how far the human tongue can go down another human’s throat?”

“Skye- what- that’s outrageous!” Simmons’ blush is the colour of roses.

“So who won?”

“I-?”

“Oh _please._ I have never seen tongues battling for dominance like yours did just now. I hate to think what would have happened if I hadn’t interrupted. Fitz probably would have lifted you onto the bench and had his way with you.”

Both their blushing faces settle into hard, serious lines.

“Oh. My.” Skye looks at the bench. “Oh, you didn’t. Oh, you _did not.”_

“Well, not _today,_ ” Simmons qualifies, doing an excellent job at keeping her face straight now that Skye is the one flailing. Still, a tiny smile creeps onto her face. “And technically, I was having my way.”

“Damn. _Damn, girl.”_ Skye raises her hand for a high-five, then thinks the better of it. “I don’t want to know. I really. Nope. I – unlike some people around here, clearly – am working. I need to focus. You and me are having all of the words about this, but for now I just need Coulson’s samples before he comes down here and…comes within a hundred feet of that bench.”

She snorts with laughter, and this time Fitzsimmons join in. Simmons goes to fetch the samples with a very satisfied smile on her face.


	9. Skye & Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Humour, black humour. T.  
> Mentions; torture, injury, blood.  
> Skye/Daisy & Hunter help each other through torture with humour.

“…Guess I won’t be knee-ding that any more?” Hunter coughs, straining against his bonds. His leg is racked with the pain of it but he keeps a bloody smile on his face. Just a few more minutes, surely.

Skye laughs, and the other guy stamps on her foot with a heavy boot. She doubles over, mouth open wide in a silent scream that her hair hides until she pulls herself back together.

“Oh come on,” she pants, “it wasn’t that bad. Give the guy…a break.”

“Good one.”

“Thanks.”

A knife sinks into her hand, pinning it to the chair. She clenches her jaw, biting down hard on the urge to cry out. The sound turns into tears and slips out the corners of her eyes, and she rasps,

“Hey, aren’t I supposed to get a steak dinner with this? Some candles, maybe?"

"A kiss and some roses, maybe?” Hunter puts in, and receives a solid punch to the face for the trouble. He spits some blood and glances at Skye. "Does a kiss with a fist count?"

Skye laughs, until she yelps and almost starts crying again with relief when her torturer pulls the blade out and steps back. The one in front of Hunter, and the one in front of her, whisper quietly to each other. Her head’s ringing too hard to catch what they’re saying, but she takes it as a good sign – at least for now – when they both shuffle toward the doorway.

“Thank you!” Hunter calls after them, dizzy with relief of his own. “We’ll be here for the foreseeable future!”


	10. Skye & Fitz & Hunter & Simmons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff/crack/humour. ft terrible singing.  
> Prompt: Skye is on pain meds, Fitz & Hunter are enjoying messing with her.  
> Skye & Fitz, Skye & Fitz & Hunter, Skye & Simmons, Skye & Fitz & Hunter & Simmons.

"Your eyes are pretty.” Skye’s face sways, her eyes shifting in and out of focus. She wants to boop him on the nose, but she can’t quite figure out where exactly that is.

“Okay,” Fitz says, putting his hands on her shoulders and guiding her back to the med bay bed. “I think we should stay seated. In fact, maybe lying down.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Yeees, you are.”

She giggles. “You’re Scottish.”

“Yes I am.”

“Have you ever worn a kilt?”

“Actually, yes.”

“I can’t imagine you in a kilt. I don’t know what your legs look like. They probably look like bean poles. What do bean poles even look like? Have you ever _seen_ a bean pole?”

“No, Skye.”

“I’ve never seen a bean pole. But I have seen a may pole. Huh. May. Pole. May’s a pole? Does May look like a bean pole?”

She leans up, searching the room, maybe for May or for her computer. Fitz gently guides her back down to horizontal and she doesn’t object. It’s at this point Hunter sticks his head in.

“Hey champ.” He smiles at Skye, then turns his head to Fitz. “How is she?”

“Out of it. Way out. Outer space out.” He shakes his head.

“Space is pretty,” Skye says. “I want to go to space. D’you think I came from space? In a rocket ship. Bshhhhhhhhh.” She mimes a rocket, and rises with it, back into a sitting position. This time, Fitz doesn’t push her down again. Hunter lowers himself into the seat beside Fitz, laughing quietly to himself.

“Remind me to bring a camera next time.”

Fitz holds his up, already rolling.

“Perfect. “ Hunter leans closer to Skye. “Skye? Skye – where do you think you are right now?”

“’M in Sco’land. Occcch aye. ‘M the President, I think. The President of Sco’land. Or something important. I’ve an island named after me, you know. An’ a song. There’s a song about me.”

Fitz rolls his eyes, prepared to brace his ears if Skye attempts to sing any of it. Hunter snorts and takes the camera from him.

“That’s interesting,” he says, keeping his diction clear. “And Madame President, how long have you lived in Scotland?”

“Mr Przzdnt.” Skye salutes. At least she’s gone back to North America in the accent realm.  “’ve lived here since…four score and seven years ago…I don’t know any more than that. I know a song though. There’s a song about me.”

Fitz groans and covers his ears. This time, she does serenade them with a part-sung, part-hummed, part-shrieked rendition. Hunter laughs, covering his own ears too, as best he can while keeping the camera pointed vaguely in Skye’s direction.

A tray of equipment clutters onto a nearby bench.

“What is going on?”

“Skye’s singing,” Hunter explains. “There’s a song about her, you know.”

Simmons snatches the camera off him.

“Yeah!” Skye jumps in. “Oh, you missed it! Should I sing it again?”

“In a minute, Skye.” Simmons smiles sweetly at her patient.

“It’s my fault,” Fitz confesses. “I was singing to her on the way back.”

“If this is over the sea to _bloody_ Skye I swear-“

Taking this as her cue, Skye launches into it - “WI-llow AND BLOW, Nyheh duh deh dehhhhhh…”

A piercing note, set far too high, sends a shudder through Simmons’ body. She fixes the boys with a dark glare, and her fist tightens around the camera. Hunter and Fitz slip out of their seats and flee the scene.


	11. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fitzsimmons + CaptainShipper!Skye.  
> Ambiguous AU. Fluff, innuendo. T.  
> Prompt: "You’re really drunk and I’m trying to stop you from spilling all of our most scandalous secrets to our friend.”

“YES.”

Simmons slammed down the last empty shot glass. Her hands were starting to shake and she couldn’t quite feel her throat anymore, but she’d done it. She collected the money and stuck it in the top of her dress – as good a place as any – and slid out of her seat.

Not used to wearing heels at this level of intoxication, she staggered violently. The room swayed.

“Oh dear,” she muttered. She could already see herself falling.

“Jemma-“ Fitz' arms boosted her and he held her close to him. He grimaced at the smell of her breath. “Can still hold your liquor, I see.”

“Yep, still got it. Although, I have to wonder why we came up with “hold.” You can’t “hold” liquor. It’s a liquid. I guess dams hold water. Maybe that’s where it’s from.”

“How many did you have?”

Simmons shrugged, as best she could while half-pinned against him. Fitz directed her toward the exit, supporting her back and pushing her forward so that her bumbling steps made any sort of progress.

“Hey, Fitzsimmons.”

“HELLO SKYE!” Simmons cried, far louder than necessary, and right in Fitz’ ear.

“Wowww, somebody’s drunk," Skye remarked, raising her eyebrows.

“Drunk ‘em under the table. Well, under the bar. Well, they’re not technically under anything, but I won.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Skye plucked the dollars protruding from Simmons’ bra, and raised an eyebrow at Fitz. Then a tiny, mischevious smile snuck onto her face.

“We really should be going,” Fitz insisted.

“Of course,” Skye agreed. “I’ll help you out.” She tucked the money into her back pocket, securing her usefulness.

 _Damn it._ Fitz pressed his lips together.

“So, Jemma,” Skye said, as she trailed Fitzsimmons out onto the street. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Well-“

“Tell her about the new ICER design,” Fitz suggested quickly. Skye narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, yes, Skye,” Simmons babbled contentedly, “it’s a very interesting combination, see we were previously using dendrotoxin, but there’s a scientist in Mali who’s developed a plant-based substance with very similar properties, but which concentration is easier to manipulate. We could achieve ICERs that are twice as powerful if we play our cards right, without the nausea that increased doses of dendrotoxin will induce. It’s really _quite_ fascinating.“

“I’m sure it is…and is Fitz helping you out with that?”

“Well it’s mostly biochemical at this point but –“

“But I bet Fitz can’t wait to get his hands on it, right?”

“Fitz’ hands _are_ quite pretty, aren’t they?”

Fitz wished he could walk faster, but Simmons was drunk and stumbling, and plenty more interested in talking to Skye.

“Yes, they are.” Skye nodded.

“Shame we have to wear gloves in the lab so much,” Fitz interjected.

“Mm, real shame,” Skye mused, fixing dark eyes on Fitz that told him she was onto him. “You know, Jemma, Fitz loves to tell me how much he loves to work with his _bare hands._ Has he done any work with his bare hands lately? In front of you, maybe? _With_ you?”

“I did make that fuel injection canister the other day, remember?” Fitz suggested.

“Oh yes, that was clever,” Simmons nodded, but before she could continue –

“And delicate, I’d imagine?” Skye suggested.

“Oh yes.” It’s almost a sigh.

“Requires just the right touch in just the right places?”

“For God’s sake-“ Fitz huffed.

“Wow, it looks like we’re really getting Fitz going.” Skye bit her lip to hold back laughter, more interested in the distant sparkle in Simmons’ eyes than in the bright red blush creeping up Fitz' neck.

“He really does…” Simmons sighed. “He really does know how to…use his hands.”

“Mmm-hm, and did he just use his hands? Or did he have other things…you know, tools. _Toys,_ even?”

“Well, he did tell me about a –“

“Drill.” As soon as he said it, Fitz clammed up.

“Oh, a drill, I see, how fascinating.” While Simmons stared straight ahead, wearing a goofy drunk smile, apparently reminiscing, Skye could practically feel the dirt from the grave Fitz was mentally digging himself. Or perhaps, her. She swallowed her laughter and asked -

“So was this a big drill? A _long_ drill? A hard drill? A fast drill? Some combination thereof?”

Simmons narrowed her eyes.

“Wait, which kind of drill are we talking about?”

Skye smiled innocently, and shrugged. “You tell me.”

Slowly, still not entirely sure of the exact location of any over her body parts, Simmons leaned her head back toward Fitz, and stage-whispered – if it could even be called whispering -

_“I think she’s trying to get me to talk about sex.”_

Fitz groaned.


	12. Fitz & Skye & others

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first discovery that Simmons is missing.  
> Post S2 finale. Canon compat. Fluff & Angst.  
> Fitz & Skye, Skye & Simmons, FitzSimmons, Team Bus.

“Wow. You look nice.”

There are still the shadows of tears in her eyes, but as she leans back against the counter and watches Fitz fiddle with his tie, Skye can’t help but smile.

“I’ve got a date,” he says, smiling back, like he can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. He tugs on his tie again, and his smile gives way to a distressed pout. He bites his lip, and mutters something to himself as his bad hand fumbles at the knot.

“Hey.” Skye sets her drink aside and stands up to help him. “This is a good thing. It’s about time something went right around here. If it’s stressing you out, just take it off.”

She pulls on the tie until it relinquishes its hold around Fitz’ neck, and tugs his collar into a suitable shape, but it does little to stop his fidgeting. He makes a tiny distressed noise, barely audible. Skye frowns.

“Hey, what’s up with you?”

“It’s stupid. ‘S ridiculous. Don’t worry.” He shakes his head.

“Today I watched my once-murderous dad kiss a Golden Retriever on the face, and I found out May owns bikinis. Which to be honest I could have lived without knowing. But my point is: ridiculous is today’s special. Seriously, what’s up?”

“I asked Jemma…I asked Jemma hours ago and I haven’t seen her since. At first I thought, maybe I freaked her out, maybe she realised that we still have a lot of…stuff…between us and dinner wasn’t a good idea yet and. I don’t know. Maybe she bailed. But I’ve looked everywhere I can think of and I can’t find her. Maybe she left the base? I don’t think she would have though, not with Bobbi here like this, not without telling anyone. Not without…telling me. Not this time.”

He’s rubbing furiously at his bad hand with his good one. Skye gently pries them apart, and gives them a comforting squeeze.

“I’ll pull up the security footage. Better safe than sorry, these days. Everything’s going to be fine.”

And at first, it is.

Skye sits at the dining table and he paces behind her, trying not to look – feeling as guilty for looking as he might for reading Simmons’ diary, even though he’s still present in the footage. Skye’s smiling to herself though. It’s a comfort. He tries to use it to drown out the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears with every beat of his heart.

In the video, Simmons looks up at him. He fumbles the side of the case and Skye laughs.

“God, you’re adorable,” she mutters. “Aw, look. Jemma’s got a boyfriend. See, she’s happy. Not freaked at all.”

But as video-Fitz leaves the room, her own racing heart becomes louder. Fitz stops pacing behind her and watches, riveted, as Jemma smiles to herself and moves one of the tuners.

Then she reacts to something. A sight, a sound, they can’t quite tell. She peers at the case. Reaches for the latch, and then-

_“HOLY -”_

Skye’s chair nearly topples backwards.

Her hands fly to her mouth and the screen cracks.

“Oh my God. Did you-“

She turns to Fitz, and apparently he did see that, because he’s staggered backwards and doubling over and his eyes are wide and his breathing is making horrible wheezing, choking sounds.

“Fitz. Fitz, it’s okay.” It’s not very convincing, with the room starting to shake around them. Jemma’s hands clawing at the floor are burnt onto her retinas. She’s infinitely glad there was no sound on the tape. For the both of them, she tries to breathe through it. “There’s going to be an explanation. Stay with me, okay, focus.”

 _“Jemma,”_ Fitz wheezes. And runs.

Coulson and Hunter burst in, guns half-raised.

“What was that? Skye?”

She’s already running after Fitz.

“What was that about?” Hunter frowns. Coulson peers at the screen, which is still playing.

The Artefact sits alone, passive, in its box. Just like any rock should.


	13. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst/Hurt/Comfort.  
> Canon compat. S2 Finale.  
> Skye & Simmons, Skye & Fitz, Bus Kids.

Simmons put her hand over Skye’s.

“Mm?”

Skye looked up, blinking back more tears. Simmons offered her a gentle smile.

“I’ll take care of all this. You can go, if you’d like.”

She gestured with her head, to where Fitz was waiting, with a sober expression and arms crossed, by the door to the lab. Skye sniffed, and passed one more look over her mother’s body. Jiaying was almost crushed. Her skin was pale, but had hardly had the chance to bruise. Her face was unsettlingly peaceful, after the display of ruthlessness with which she’d left this world. Skye’s stomach churned, rage and pain and grief choking her.

“Thanks, Jemma.”

Simmons nodded as Skye walked away, and watched her into Fitz’ arms before she resumed her work.

-

Fitz opened the door for Skye with the arm that was not wrapped around her shoulders. They walked in silence down the hall to Skye’s bedroom. Skye sat against her headrest and drew her legs up to her chest. Fitz sat beside her, with his legs long but one arm still draped around her. Eventually, he let his eyes drift away from her, to the pattern of her bedsheets and to the clothes bleeding out of her chest of drawers.

“I’d ask how you’re holding up,” he said, quietly, “but ‘s a ridiculous question. I can’t even imagine, losing my mum. At all, I mean – what you –“

He shook his head. Skye shrugged.

“She locked me up. She was going to kill me, kill the people I love. She wasn’t really my mother. Not the way that matters, anyway.”

“But she was.” Fitz squeezed her shoulders, and she looked across the small space at him. “She mattered, Skye. She’s part of your life. Your biology, but also…she’s part of the reason you’ve lived the way you have. Loved the people you have. Learnt the things you have. She’s not the mother you want her to be, she’s not the one you need, maybe she’s not your mother in any sort of way that counts, but don’t let anyone – including yourself - tell you that you shouldn’t be sad about it. Or angry. You lost something today.”

Skye bit her lip. Tears started to creep over her eyelashes.

“It’s okay,” Fitz assured her, easing her to rest against his chest.

“You sound like you speak from experience.” Her attempt at bravado died on her gravelly tone.

“That’s a conversation for another day.”

Skye sighed, frustrated and relieved at once. Fitz ran his fingers up and down her arm until he could feel her relax. A long silence stretched between them. Seconds, minutes, maybe hours passed like lapping waves.

“She told me…” Skye whispered, choked with tears. “She told me my birthday. I’m twenty six.”

And then her shoulders started to shake.


	14. Bus Kids + May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon compat/spec for S4.  
> Set immediately after S3 finale, the team meet their new Director & Simmons is immediately suspicious.  
> Bus Kids (especially FS), May. May + Simmons.

“Thanks,” Daisy mumbles numbly, as Fitz and Simmons form a brace around her to stop her falling down the stairs. It feels like the whole world is spinning, and that she has to focus on not throwing up, even though she’s too tired to do so. She tightens her fists and focuses on where Fitz and Simmons are holding her, trying to ground herself and remind herself that all is not lost, despite the voices that insist _it should have been me._

Focusing as she is on their body language instead of her own, she can’t help but notice Simmons freeze and tense up in the middle of the hallway. Fitz notices too, and stops, so that Daisy’s weight is even. He frowns at Simmons’ stunned expression. She’s staring up ahead of them, where Coulson is shaking hands with, and May is staring down, somebody he’s never seen before.

“What?” he wonders. 

If he’s not mistaken, Fitz hears a quiet curse pass Simmons’ lips before she speas audibly. Even then, it’s in a hushed whisper.

 _“That’s_ who they’re getting for the new Director?” she hisses. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

“Who is he?”

She sneers with disgust.

“A eugenicist.” 

“What’s happening?” Daisy mutters, dazed. Simmons tenses again, and at her insistence, she and Fitz shuffle with Daisy into a side corridor. Even more hushed now, Simmons continues – 

“He’s not a scientist, he plays politics. He plays fear.”

“White supremacy though?” Fitz questions. “That doesn’t sound like Shield. Especially if they want to go public with it.” 

“Human supremacy, though,” Simmons points out. “Very possibly Shield. And also probably very popular. Not to mention, it’s a very likely consequence of the Sokovia Accords, and…the register.” 

She bites her lip, regretting her part in it, and Fitz sighs as once again, their faith in humanity and the value of science has proven overly optimistic. 

“Of course I’m not saying he’s going to take a gun to them all right _now,”_ Simmons continues, “but they shouldn’t stay here. Daisy shouldn’t stay here.”

“What?”  
  
Daisy’s eyes widen. She’s alert enough to catch that last part.

“No,” she pleads, her eyes filling with tears again. “No, you can’t make me go. Don’t make me go.”

She pulls away from them both, but she’s too scared, confused and exhausted to get very far, and she lowers herself against the wall on shaking legs. Simmons kneels by her side, trying to be as comforting as possible while her mind races for solutions. Fitz keeps his eye on the corner, heart beginning to race, until Simmons speaks again. 

“We won’t make you go alone,” she promises. “We’ll figure something out.” 

Daisy nods, but curls further in on herself. Simmons inhales and holds it, and blinks away any tears that may have built up, before she looks up at Fitz.

“Take her to her room. Stay with her. I’m going to make sure Elena and Joey are safe, then get the others and we’ll think of a plan.”

Fitz nods, a little too overwhelmed by fear to voice either concern or support, but grateful that he could trust Simmons’ judgement and orders in times of crisis. He whispers and cajoles Daisy into standing, while Simmons checks her face and hair and checks that her face gives away neither overt bitterness, nor excessive satisfaction, with the situation. They glance to each other for a ready signal, and then Simmons strides out ahead, catching the attention of the Director in time for Fitz and Daisy to sneak past. 

May is still hovering in the hallway, her expression ambiguously displeased, having noticed the delay, and the (albeit increasingly well-hidden) signs of Simmons’ undercover anxiety. She’s been getting the feeling she shouldn’t trust this guy, and apparently, Simmons has good reason not too either. 

At last, the Director turns to head back toward his office. He passes May on the way, but she waits for Simmons before falling into line. Simmons glances up at her with a hint of fear, and steely determination, and May nods her acknowledgement. It’s time to hatch a plot.


	15. Skye & Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skye gets (too) drunk and Hunter has to take care of her.  
> Canon compat, or AU, take your pick. Fluff.  
> ft. Simmons

It’s two am – well 1:58 – when Lance Hunter’s phone rings the first time. He wakes up, throws it promptly against the wall, and lets it buzz to itself on the carpet until it stops.

It’s two thirty am – well, 2:37 – when it goes off again. It vibrates itself to the edge of the carpet and onto the wood, and since he still hasn’t fallen back asleep from the last time, he stuffs his face into his pillow and groans as if yelling at it might shut it up. 

The phone goes off again almost immediately after it stops. The person on the other end of the line hangs up and tries again.

Hunter sighs, and slaps the pillow against the bedcovers before throwing said bedcovers out of the way and hauling himself to his feet.

“What?!” he snaps at it, pulling up the “missed calls” list. Skye. Simmons. Skye. Skye. His eyes widen, and his jaw drops. He dials back. There’s no answer, but a text message promptly appears.

_6 th 47th E we’re tipsy she’s pissed_

He rolls his eyes. Couldn’t they have just got a cab? Well, no, not if they didn’t have the cash on them, since their cards were on terrorism alert. He sighs, and grabs the nearest jacket, and jogs out to the car, his breath steaming the air. 

–

Simmons is a giggling, babbling mess. He tunes it out after a while. Fortunately, she seems more intent on making sure Skye’s comfortable than anything else. Skye’s clearly had a few too many. She slides towards Simmons increasingly as they drive, lulled by the lights but shaken by the stops and starts, until she has her head in Simmons' lap and her eyes squeezed closed. Hunter hopes she doesn’t chuck in the car. Nobody needs that.

When they get out, Simmons helps Skye up, but she herself has to grab the top of the door.

“Lahnce.” She hiccups. “I’m terribly sorry but the room is…starting to spin…rather badly. I should be off to bed. Do you mind terribly much if I leave you with Skye? I know I shouldn’t have let her have so much but you know, we were playing a game and I didn’t realise she’d already had more than me and clearly she can’t hold her liquor like I can and I’m afraid we both got rather distracted by the competition, you know, as you do…”

Hunter waves a hand. 

“’S fine.” He’s going to get a headache as bad as hers will be if he has to listen to any more of it. She apparently notices his face, because she presses her lips shut and nods, and leaves in silence.

Hunter turns his attention to Skye. 

“Can you walk?”

She shakes her head. 

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” he insists, “just try not to puke on me, yeah? It’s cold, I’d rather not change before bed.”

She gives a half-hearted laugh, and he tucks his arm under hers as she pulls away from the car. Step by step, they weave down to her bedroom, and she collapses onto her bed with a grateful moan. Hunter smiles, satisfied, but then notices her tight pants, heavy jewelry, and heels. Not exactly the greatest sleeping clothes. 

He’s not going near the pants, he decides, but he delicately pries her shoes off and drops them to the floor, and then considers an action plan for her necklace and earrings. All of a sudden, she lurches up and grabs his jacket.

“Bucket. Bucket now.”

He reaches back and grabs the bin, thrusting it into her hands just in time. Trying his best not to pull a face, he reaches around her to scoop her hair out of the way. He moves around her, crawling on his knees onto the bed, to get a better angle. He twists her hair so that it stays, ducks into the en suite for an elastic and a glass of water, and returns, laying behind her to tie her hair in a loose bun.

“It’s alright,” he tells her, “lay back, relax, I’ll get some water, it’s fine.” 

Shaking – her head throbbing, her mouth sour, and bitterly embarrassed – Skye obeys, accepting his proffered water with a grateful hum and letting herself roll back against him. He shuffles at first - he's stuck above the blankets, and there's a perfectly good pillow _right there_ - but quickly accepts his fate, and settles for gently guiding Skye's wrist away from the bin as he feels her relax. Out of touch, out of mind. She closes her eyes. He’s humming something. She doesn’t recognise it, at least not in this state, but it’s gentle on her head so she doesn’t fight it. The sway of the song, and the steadiness of his breathing, helps her steady her own, and she drifts into slumber.


	16. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by 2x20 promos, set early 2x20 but canon divergent. Angst.  
> Lincoln's presence & powers cause tension between Skye and Simmons.  
> contains a brief PTSD/anxiety attack/flashback.

 Simmons watched in horror, her skin beginning to crawl, as the pincers and scalpels she was shifting began to rise. They floated into the air like they were being controlled by so many marionette strings...or...

The tools cluttered back to their trays, but Simmons’ heart was still in her throat. Her eyes were wide, unblinking. She felt the floor drop out from underneath her. Wind screaming in her ears. Ward was there.

Then she leapt into action, breathing over her pounding heart to sound the alarm. She hollered numbers. Procedures. Just like they’d practiced.

Wind screaming. Falling. Oh God she was going to be sick.

The lab doors locked. She could hear him screaming.

She looked over. He appeared worried, hesitant, but he wasn’t hammering on the glass. This wasn’t that lab.

“Jemma?” Fitz' voice was so muffled, she was largely getting by on lip-reading. He had his hand on the glass, stuck on the outside, desperate to reach her. “Jemma, what’s going on?”

_Lincoln. This is about Lincoln. There’s no virus. There’ll be no falling. His abilities are in his DNA._

But just in case, Simmons ordered one of the techs to distribute the vaccine amongst everyone in the lab. _Breathe. Just breathe through it. Everything is under control._

Pulling a surgical mask over her face, she returned to Lincoln’s side. What had caused the shock? Was he waking up already, aware of what they were doing to him? Was it a self-defence mechanism?

Fists hammered on the glass.

“HEY!” Skye hollered. “HEY, GET AWAY FROM HIM. HE’S SCARED OF YOU. LEAVE HIM ALONE.”

Simmons hesitated, and gestured to where Lincoln was laid out, trying to hear properly through the glass and over the sirens (and over her own pounding heart). She was torn between listening to Skye, and tending to Lincoln. He still had only half-completed stitches, and he was restrained to the bed; hardly a reassuring scenario for anyone to wake up to. And no wonder Skye’s eyes were so fierce. It didn’t help that she probably couldn’t see from this angle, what exactly Simmons was doing. Add the sirens and the mask, and it was no wonder she had jumped to the conclusion that they were being attacked.

_“LEAVE HIM ALONE!”_

Her fists met the glass again, and shattered it. Simmons felt the shock of it run up her body. There was a sharp pain in her fingertips. She dropped her pincers, and couldn’t help but notice the rapid bruising, purple spreading down her fingers.

It took her a moment, like in the eye of the storm. Then -

_“DOWN!”_

She dove for the floor. Windows, beakers, vials shattered. The screens on Lincoln’s monitors cracked. Those chemicals they’d had out sprayed into the air. It only lasted a second. Two, max. But the damage was done.

Skye, mortified, watched it settle. She looked down at her own hands. Then back up at the wreck before her. 

Simmons pulled herself to her feet and brushed off, looking around.

“Is everyone okay?”

She lay her hands on the bench for balance, and nearly doubled over at the pain that shot up her right arm.

At that, Fitz ran for the emergency door release. Abandoning his tablet, he ran to her side like a bullet. Cradling her injured hand, she hobbled under his watchful gaze to the sink, and washed her wound.

Skye trailed Fitz, staring in horror at the wreck she had created.

“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn't mean to. I thought I had it under control.”

“Well you didn’t.”

Tears of pain and fear and anger stung her cheeks, and she blinked them away, hiding her face and squaring her shoulders against Skye. Fitz hovered beside her, wanting to help, but knowing he was on the outskirts of a crackling tension he definitely did not want to touch.

Skye twisted her hands together. She wasn’t sure what exactly she had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

“Did- did I hurt you?” she stammered.

"Yes," Simmons hissed. “And you could have done a lot worse."

"I'm sorry, I-"

"You know your powers are volatile," Simmons continued, glowering. "You know your emotions are volatile. You know this room is full of glass, and dangerous chemicals. People could have died, or gone blind, or all manner of horrors. A broken hand is a mercy."

Skye hung her head.

"Jemma..."

"You should go," Simmons instructed tightly.

"Jemma..."

It was Fitz this time. Simmons glared at him. His eyes were so soft, pained and caring. Understanding, or thinking he did. Wanting to, at least. He would have hugged her, before. He didn’t move this time. Good. She probably would have punched the next thing that touched her. Probably with her broken hand.

Simmons sighed. She looked from Fitz’ concerned eyes, to Skye’s forlorn face, and then down at the floor.

“Somebody needs to finish up with Lincoln's _stitches_. Fitz, if Skye’s done blowing things up for the time being, I suggest you both leave me to it.”

Fitz moved to protest again, but thought the better of it, and ushered Skye away.


	17. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Humour. but also some angst? but mostly humour.  
> Fitz is injured on a mission and Simmons overreacts.

“Nice work, Team.” Skye high-fived Fitz, and tucked the thumb drive into her pocket. Not a moment later, the door at the other end of the hallways burst open and three agents rushed in.

“Get down,” Skye whispered, and Fitz dove for the floor as a shockwave rang out, sending the other agents flying.

“Run! Run!”

Already scrambling to his feet, Fitz stuck to Skye’s heels as best he could, running past the fallen agents as he pulled the pistol from his belt and cocked it.

Suddenly, she fell. The last of the agents had grabbed her foot and dragged her into a fight. Fitz froze up, contemplating raising his pistol, but in such a small space, and at the speed Skye and the agent were switching, it would be a risky shot even if his hands didn’t shake.

“FITZ!”

Skye shouted over the agent’s head, but Fitz only just registered her warning before a heavy weight crashed against his side. He slammed against the concrete floor, winded. The gun skittered out of his hand, but he rolled in time to dodge a punch that would have done some serious damage.

The agent who’d pinned him was back on his feet almost instantly, and swinging punches as if he didn’t care that he was hitting wall instead of Fitz.

Fitz ducked under the agent’s arm and grabbed their wrist and twisted. He had a brief moment of victory when the other agent fell to one knee, but they recovered, and threw him across the hallway, against the opposite wall. Before they could charge at Fitz, Skye jumped on them and pinned them, but they rolled. This time, rather than go for a punch that could be dodged, they fixed their hands around Skye’s throat.

Fitz cast his eyes around the floor for his pistol, but it was nowhere to be seen, so he dove forward and locked his arms around the agent’s neck. They stood, clawing at his hands, but he only locked on tighter.

_I regret everything._

He could feel his heart hammering at a dizzying rate. He closed his eyes and felt his ribs crack against the wall. The agent was stumbling. Losing oxygen. But intentionally throwing him against the wall, harder with each attempt, to shake him.

“Hold on!” Skye shouted. She sounded out of breath, probably in the middle of her own fight.

_One stray bullet and you could be dead._

_Hold on._

His head cracked against the brick. The shock of it ran down his whole body and his eyes flew open. The room spun. A stabbing pain, like pinched nerves, screamed at him to let go, but he made it long enough to stagger away at the last minute, just as the agent crashed to the ground unconscious.

“That’s one way to do it,” Skye huffed, holding out his pistol. “You little terrier.”

Fitz grinned and took a moment to catch his breath before taking the gun from her and holstering it. He missed the holster the first try. The room was still spinning.

“You alright?” Skye frowned.

“Yeah.” Fitz nodded. “Just winded. And hit my head a bit. Give me a sec.”

There were tiny explosions in his eyes. He squeezed them shut and pinched his nose, trying to focus on steadying his breathing.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Killer headache.”

And then he dropped like a stone.

–

_Jemma’s going to freak._

The thought circled through Skye’s head as she bit her nails and tapped her foot, unable to take her eyes off Fitz’ pale face. Across the isle from her, Coulson held him gently, but there was something off about the shade of his skin. Something far too familiar for comfort. And he’d been under nearly ten minutes now, which Skye had a feeling was far from normal.

“Landing,” May announced, bristly, even for her. Coulson fixed hard eyes on Skye.

“Get her out of the way. Out of the room. Okay?”

“Yes sir.”

Skye imagined the number on her watch getting smaller. Evened her breathing. Felt her heartbeat steady.

_Jemma’s going to freak._

Skye led the way. There was no crowd to cut through but the air was so thick with tension it was tangible. And then visible, as Simmons’ face dropped visible shades and grim determination was lost for a moment in memory and fear.

“Jemma. Come with me.” Skye filled Simmons’ vision with her body, trying to block out Fitz and press Jemma from the room at the same time.

“What- what happened? What-why-“

“It’s under control. Let the other doctors handle it.” Skye pushed Jemma down the hall. She gritted her teeth as the Doctor shoved back against her, and instead of just using her body as a barricade, she had to grab Simmons’ shoulders.

“It is not under control!” Jemma twisted free and Skye grabbed at her again before she could duck past.

“You’re in no state for this. It would be better for Fitz if you stayed- out-“

Weak fists battered against her. Skye bit her lip, but deflected Simmons’ half-hearted attacks easily.

“Jemma, please-“

“Skye! Let me see him!” Jemma’s insistence became more forceful. She shoved against Skye with her whole body.

“I don’t want to hurt you Jem-“

“You don’t understand!”

“I’m under orders!”

_“LET ME SEE HIM!”_

Out of the blue, it was a solid punch. No more evasive manoeuvres: just a fist with her whole body behind it, square on to Skye’s face.

_“GOD! WHAT THE HELL JEMMA!”_

Skye staggered backward, a hand pinched over her bleeding nose. Simmons face was flushed now, and her expression dumbstruck.

“Skye, I’m so- I am so- oh my god.”

“Nice jab.” Skye smiled briefly, and then groaned again. “Wow, I think you broke it.”

“Let me have a look.”

Simmons approached tentatively, and Skye slowly released her nose from her hold as much as she dared.

“Oh, I’m afraid I did,” Simmons evaluated. “I’m so sorry. I just freaked out about Fitz. I can’t believe I did that. Oh god. Fitz.”

She looked up the hall toward the lab, and then back to Skye, who sighed.

“As long as we stay out of the room. And could we please do something about my nose?”


	18. Fitz & Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A letter from Fitz to Daisy, set in the S2/3 hiatus, when Fitz realises that his quest to get Simmons back involves chasing her, which may involve not coming back. Rshps: FItz & Daisy, Bus Kids.

~~Skye~~ _ (sorry) _

Daisy,   

Don’t freak out.

Okay, maybe freak out a little, but if you could wait until you’ve finished reading this, that would be great.

I did mean to tell you in person, but you’ve been so busy and ~~I get that the new missions are important but~~ I’ve been distracted too, and let’s face it, I’d never get the words out anyway.

I’ve found her. At least, I’ve found the way to her. The rock is not a rock - it’s a gateway to someplace. A portal, I think.  _Don’t follow us._ It’s dangerous to Inhumans, it might take your powers away or even kill you. It shouldn’t hurt us, though, which is why I hope I can come back. In case I can’t – that’s what this note is for.

First, I want to thank you for being there for me and believing in me while you were going through so much yourself. I know I got mad a lot and scared you off, and seeing me hurting and changing like that must have been very hard, so thank you for standing by me. I hope I returned some of that comfort. I’m sorry to leave you now when you probably need it more than ever. I sincerely hope that I can get back, and I will do everything in my power to do so, but I have to go. I have to go, and it can’t wait any longer.

Except to say another thanks. And a third, actually, so I’ll combine them into one. Jemma is one of the greatest things in my life and she always has been, and you helped me realise I was in love with her, and you gave me the courage to do something about it. I once thought Ward was the knight in shining armour that I wanted to be, but he’s not. You are. You are so strong and brave, and loving, and inspiring, and I’ll be forever grateful that our paths have crossed.

We haven’t spoken much lately, and honestly I’m not sure I’d have ever been able to say that out loud anyway, ~~but it feels like so much more of a goodbye when you write it down. More permanent.~~

Sorry, I shouldn’t be talking about goodbyes yet. I really, really hope this isn’t one, and logic suggests it shouldn’t be (doors open two ways, after all). Plus I’m sure you’ve had enough goodbyes in your life lately. Too many. I really wish I didn’t have to go. I miss you and I really want to be here to support you. I wish I could at least give you a hug goodbye and really mean it, but Jemma needs me, and I need her, and I’m going to try to bring her back.

While I’m away – I know you’ll probably say that you deal well with loneliness – I know, relatively, you probably do – but while I’m away, and you’re busy, and everyone is distracted, try to remember how loved you are. Jemma loves you too. And try to remember that your family can be as big or as small as you want it to be. If you want to leave Cal and Jiaying behind you, you can. If you want to bring them forward with you, you can. You can find new family too – you are family to me now. I don’t know if I’m the older or the younger brother half the time, but I would do anything for you. You know that, right?

My mother used to tell me, family shapes you, but you can shape it too. You are in control, and you can define yourself. I’m talking to the powerful girl who named herself, twice. I know that. But I’m also talking to the grieving, lonely girl with two broken families. You are both of these people. Don’t be afraid of that.

Time is ticking. Jemma is waiting. Please, don’t freak out. ~~I’ll~~  We’ll see you soon. And in case we don’t: I hope you find what you are looking for. I know I did, and it’s because of you.

Be safe. We love you. Save the world.

Fitz.  
(& Simmons)


	19. Simmons & Ward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon compat/UA. Angst. ft Bakshi.  
> Alternate version a scene in 2x19, in which Bakshi doesn't die, but the rest of the scene (mood etc.) is canon compat.

“Sir, lookout!”

Bakshi dives towards her and Simmons baulks, pulling the Splinter bomb out of his reach. She whips her gun from its holster and Bakshi raises his hands, moving out of the way as he looks over his shoulder to check that Ward has received his warning.

Ward’s gun has been raised since before Simmons’ hand had brushed her holster. But he doesn’t fire, even when she has it level with his chest. He peers down the barrel of his own gun, at her. She can almost see the way his face contorts when he imitates himself. _Ahm Agent Grayan’ Ward._ Joy and nostalgia flares up as rage, and her fist tightens around the Splinter bomb.

“Are you going to kill me, Simmons?” Ward’s question is matter-of-fact. Perhaps even a little gentle.

 _He’s trying to get you to lower your gun. That’s what he wants._ She tightens her grip. She should let go of one of the weapons. But she won’t.

“It’d be a little suspicious, don’t you think?”

She glares.

“The others would probably be on your side, to be fair. But I mean. The circumstances are pretty shady. There are going to be questions.”

“I’ll answer them.”

“How? Are going to tell them I tried to attack you? Gonna force Bakshi to take your side?”

“Maybe I’ll kill him too,” she snarls.

His eyes tighten a little, recalculating her. He lowers his gun a little, holding it off to the side. She does the same, but only to raise the Splinter bomb to a more threatening angle.

“You’d do that.” Ward only sounded skeptical. “You’d take out two of us.”

“Absolutely.”

“And they’d believe that you’d done that. Without premeditation.”

“That’s what I’d tell them. What they’d believe is their business. My goal will have been achieved. They can lock me up for the rest of my life for all I care.”

“Clearly you’ve never been locked up.”

“I’ve been worse.”

Ward snorts with laughter. Simmons grinds her teeth. _Squeeze it. Squeeze it and throw it. In a few seconds this will all be over._

“Alright.” Ward lowers his gun further, almost disarming himself. He holds his arms open to her, turns his palms toward her. “Alright. If you think you handle the aftermath, fire away. I deserve it. Make Bakshi’s a clean shot though, if you don’t mind. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing.”

_He’s LITERALLY asking for it. What are you waiting for?_

Her breath shakes.

_It’s a play, of course it is, he’s trying to trick you into letting him go._

Her fingers are frozen on the button.

Ward smiles, an apologetic smile that is shallow and mocking in its apparent sincerity. He makes a point of tucking his gun away as he strolls up to her. He ignores her as she raises her gun again. He gets so close that the metal of it is almost against his vest. A bullet would probably get through that.

Before she can blink, he’s twisted her wrist and forced her to drop the gun. He lets go of the wrist immediately. She is unharmed, but shaken enough not to fight him when he plucks the Splinter bomb from her shock-weakened grasp.

“Is this the only one you have?”

He sounds frustrated, like he’s confiscating chewing gum. She stares him down. He sighs, hits the centre of the bomb, and tosses it lazily onto a nearby shelf without so much as a glance over his shoulder. The shelf dissolves like he would have, but he only sighs and offers her gun back to her.

“Gotta say, Simmons. I’m disappointed.”

She snatches the gun off him, and keeps her face hard, though her eyes are probably already giving her away. When he’s gone, she tries to take a breath. Her bones turn into strings and her lungs to sponges. She swallows down a sob.

“I was quite impressed,” offers Bakshi’s refined accent.

She cocks her pistol and turns toward him, but doesn’t raise it. She wonders if, in his dazed state, he’s noticed that she won’t fire. She hopes he hasn’t.

“I didn’t ask you.”


	20. The Bus & Simmons & Fitz & Coulson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon compat. Set 2x19.  
> Mostly Fluff, & Hurt/Comfort.  
> RIP The Bus.

“The Bus? Why are we calling it the _Bus?_ Airborne bloody deathtrap is what it should be called. Ooh - Death Star. Flying Death Star. Death Comet.”

“I thought you’d like it! You’re the one coming up with stupid names all the time-“

“Stupid names? My names are great, ‘Doctor Simmonsy’, queen of naming things.”

“Well at least I can finish making the thing!”

“Hey, don’t put that on me - _your_ solution keeps eating through the shell!”

“Speaking of eating-“

A third voice joined the conversation, along with the smell of fresh, warm, chocolate cake.

“Doctor Fitz, Doctor Simmons,” the warm voice greeted.

“Agent Coulson!” Simmons exclaimed, a smile lighting up her face as Fitz reached for a cupcake. Coulson smiled, and offered the plate to her. She took a cake, and then glanced at the trolley of suitcases between herself and Fitz, realising that neither of them would be able to push something that bulky and heavy with only one hand. Immediately, a gaggle of uniformed agents arrived to sweep it away from them. The tiny Tardis keyring on her duffel bag bounced joyfully, and though her heart was pounding at the thought that that bag was now, essentially, all she owned in the world, she couldn’t help but smile at it as it disappeared around the corner to be transported to the hangar and loaded.

_“I thought you might also be interested in these,” Coulson offered, taking a roll of blueprint paper from the nearest orderly and holding it out to Fitz. “I was supposed to only give you the lab specs, but I figured, hey. I have something of a budget, if either of you would like to make some improvements. Anything you think might make you feel at home on this ‘airborne deathtrap.’”_

Fitz’ ears turned red. He concentrated special effort on swallowing the large bite of cake he’d just practically inhaled.

“I-“ he stammered over the quite literal lump in his throat. “I, uh, what I meant was-“

Coulson waved Fitz off as a voice around the corner called for him. Coulson pressed the plate of cupcakes forward until Simmons took it, and then moved toward the call.

“You’ll be picked up at 0-900. And Fitz? If you were looking for safety, you wouldn’t be out here.”

With that, he disappeared around the corner, after their suitcases. The orderlies scattered at the same time, like clockwork, leaving Fitz and Simmons alone and possessionless in the hallway.

“Did he just – wink at us?” Fitz wondered, staring after him. Simmons shrugged, and looked down at the tray of steaming-fresh cupcakes in her arms. She grinned.

“I like him.”

**–**

“I call it Operation Airborne Deathtrap,” Coulson finished.

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Fitz’ fingers clutched the straps at his shoulders, glowing white, at the thought of it.

“May’s got it all under control.”

 _Yeah, except for the stomach dropping and the vomit-inducing fall and the breathing…_ Fitz swallowed hard. Simmons’ hand twitched, wanting to reach for him, but unwilling to let go of her own straps, no doubt reliving the same sickening fall. But she didn’t let on, and she didn’t protest. They had limited options and even more limited time and two traumatised scientists were going to have to put it behind them for the greater good.

“Can I get something first?” Simmons asked all of a sudden. “I – uh I didn’t move in properly before…”

“Make it quick.”

She unclipped the straps and lunged down the passageway, already dizzy at the thought of falling but no, no, she had to focus. So much had ended recently, so much was changing, and the terror that clutched her every fibre only screamed just how much. Honestly, she might have believed in that moment that seeing that tiny Tardis keyring might just save her life.

The duffel was still lying on her bed. It was empty – she hadn’t been able to stomach taking it with her to Hydra, to what felt like a betrayal of all she knew and held dear. But the cheerful little Tardis shone blue to greet her, and turn that fear into fluttering nostalgic bliss for a moment.

The Bus lurched and the moment was over. Simmons grabbed the bag and swept her nearest remaining belongings into it, more eager to sit down and strap in than she had ever been in her life, but just as she swung back into the hallway, she noticed Skye’s open door. And on the floor, a familiar figure that had rolled up against the gap. She grabbed that too, and stuffed it into the bag, on top of a muddled heap of books, figurines and photographs. She dove back into the hold of the Quinjet and wedged the bag under her seat, then strapped in and held on for dear life.

So much had changed. The thrill of excitement at a little turbulence was now a raging terror through which she could feel her heartbeat in her brain. She could hear Fitz’ breaths growing shorter and shallower beside her.  She was hyperaware of the bag under her seat - once upon a time, it contained what she had thought to be all that she had in the world. Now, it bore the hope of repairing something that she had never anticipated having, or wanting, or needing; a reminder of just how much she had, and how big her world was, and what little trinkets, special though they were, she would give up if she had to.

“Get ready,” somebody warned her.

Simmons took a deep breath, trying not to think of the ocean, or of falling, or of the smell of the hospital bed. Trying instead to think of the arms of a friend around her, of the face of a man who would – and did – follow her to the ends of the earth and the bottom of the ocean and death, over and over again. Trying to think of a little plastic hula dancer, an aborted fish tank, and the smell of warm chocolate cupcakes.

They dropped.


	21. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy (some hints of angst). Happy ending.  
> Contains references to real-world politics.  
> Bus Kids, FitzSimmons + Daisy (mentioned), Skimmons.

_Defendants of the mysterious ‘Quake’ hail a young woman as their savior, pointing to her as an underdog and an icon in more ways than just her Inhumanity. They insist that her attacks are very strategic, and bear a political message that non-powered people have been insisting upon for years. She takes from the rich and gives to the poor, they claim, citing gifts she has left in lower socio-economic suburbs, and debts that have mysteriously disappeared. Children mimic her movements in the street and activists take her name as well as her determination to stand up – even aggressively - to disrespect, oppression, and authority figures they believe are in the wrong. But are they right to idolize her, or has this Quake cult gone too far?_

Simmons rolled her eyes. With a word like ‘cult’ already coming into the mix, it was not hard to see where this article was going. Still, her eyes couldn’t help but read, hungry as they were for any news of Daisy. Simmons wished Daisy would just make contact; then maybe she wouldn’t have to get her news through such awfully filtered rubbish.

_A third bank robbery this month has left thousands more First National customers out of pocket, and caused at least half a million dollars damage to the heritage building where the bank was situated. Law firm Bell & Briar, whose offices above the bank have been forced to relocate, have offered to pursue a case against the attacker, pro bono – if she (if it is a ‘she’ at all) can be caught._

_“Such disregard for the lives of our citizens cannot go unpunished,” a spokesman for the firm said today in an interview with us. “Disregard for their heritage, their work, their earnings, as well as of course their safety and wellbeing. Our city has a history of terror attacks, and now with these alien creatures living among us – very powerful and dangerous ones clearly – people are living in fear. Our police contacts have people on the line every day. Shaken people, worried about their city. Worried about their future.”_

Simmons huffed. Fitz peered over from where he was reading a science journal across the table. Over the course of her reading, Simmons’ brow had furrowed; her shoulders tensed; the hand that did not await turning the page now clenched in a tight fist. 

“Are you alright?” he checked. “Are they writing that tripe about Daisy again?” 

“Tripe, exactly!” Simmons agreed, but it had already weaselled its way under her skin. “Listen to this – _‘She looked at me on her way out. She looked possessed and very angry, like the Terminator. I thought she was going to kill me with her mind, or reach down my throat and pull my spine out. She was like a spider. I was terrified.’”_

Fitz grimaced.

“That’s not even the worst, though,” he pointed out. “I read one the other day where this lady was convinced her eyes glowed red and that she broke all the guards necks at once and made their eyes bleed. I don’t know how that was allowed to reach print, seeing as it’s completely factually incorrect. No-one’s even died.” 

“Ugh.” Simmons huffed and cast the paper aside, then called it back only to draw out a long and satisfying tear as she ripped the offending article into pieces. “I’m just waiting for the one where they figure out she’s got Chinese heritage and start blaming immigrants for aliens.” 

“On top of singlehandedly causing atheism, sexism and the existence of gay people?” Fitz faux-gasped. “Wow, those immigrants sure must have busy schedules. Especially with all the jobs they’re apparently stealing.”

Simmons snorted with laughter.

“We, Fitz – _we_ are apparently stealing,” she corrected him.

“I don’t think they’ve noticed us yet,” Fitz pointed out. He glanced over the papers before him. “Wall to Mexico…ban Islam…nothing about ‘Brits who decided to come over for kicks’. We’re fine.”

“Oh, God.” Simmons screwed up her nose and reached for the nearest ‘Wall to Mexico’ article, and began tearing that one up too for good measure. “I hope Joey and Elena haven’t got caught up in any of this. It’s going to get messy.” 

“It could be fun,” Fitz countered. “A gay Hispanic alien? Pretty sure someone’s head’s going to explode.” 

He mimed the explosion with bugged eyes. Simmons snickered. In reality, it was a dangerous, stressful and upsetting situation – for them, let alone for any of the actual Inhumans who were being faced with the increasing amounts of vitriolic, paranoid hatred that was apparently the Next Big Thing in tabloid media. For all its very real horrific possibilities, it was nice to look at it in its farcically ignorant light, if only for a moment.

“But check this one out, though,” Fitz suggested, before reality could settle back in and make Simmons’ mood drop again.

He tossed an open magazine into her field of vision, obscuring calls for isolationism with a picture of a little girl in a black jacket in a superhero landing pose on the pavement. It formed the centerpiece of a double spread of other kids dressed up in the somewhat more iconic get-up of Captain America, Iron Man and the like, and bore the question: _Our Next Heroes?_

It was probably referring to the children themselves, but the thought that it could be referring to Daisy made Simmons’ heart fill with pride. She studied the little girl with admiration. Her tiny, chubby legs and facial expression were not as convincing as Daisy’s, but the effort was there. Simmons blushed, reminded of herself and her studious imitations of one Peggy Carter, in oversized blazers and a very lovingly, if terribly, home-crafted red hat. Simmons began tearing again, but this time carefully, around the frame of the image. She was careful to include the caption, which she hoped would bring the same smile to Daisy’s face as it did to hers.


	22. Fitz & Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set S2/3 hiatus. Hurt/comfort.  
> Prompt: Daisy finds & helps Fitz after a particularly disappointing Maveth lead.  
> Fitz & Daisy (brotp), FitzSimmons (by reference)
> 
> in which Daisy is the sunshine of everyone's lives.  
> PS - I love writing this brotp and have heaps of it so if you like them check out my collection

They all knew by now to stay out of his way when he came back from his missions in the outside world. Either he was riveted, excited, unstoppably determined to make the next discovery, or he was all seething rage, disappointment and frustration, emanating a silent force of warning. 

Today was one of the latter.

Fortunately, he’d also grown better at handling his own emotions, and was no longer so destructive about it. It helped that the path to his room was now clear, free of temptations, but all the same it was an effort to keep himself relatively gathered until he reached the sanctuary of his room before letting his emotions overwhelm him. When the rage and frustration won over, he’d lash out. He’d broken a few of his possessions this way, and thrown around a good few more that had fortunately endured their battering with grace. It was when the disappointment and heartbreak won, though, that he truly feared. He found it drained away the fuel from the rage, until it seemed the future he was looking at was a deep, dark pit. It was a world of grey, devoid of colour and light. It was a world of his failure, and her absence. It was a world he was becoming increasingly familiar with, these last few weeks.

Fitz slammed his door shut, already feeling the draining begin and trying to reverse the process. He picked up a large, ageing manuscript from his bedside table and clenched his fists so hard his knuckles whitened against its cover – yet, already, he had lost the direction in which he’d been intending to throw it. He’d lost the motivation, entirely, to choose a new trajectory. He could see the void, opening up before him already. He dropped onto the bed, hunched over the book and clutching it to his chest as some kind of reminder, some final lifeline to the flicker of hope that still must burn, surely, for her existence. 

Sitting there, alone, he cried.

He finally cried the tears that had been building up with every hope and hopelessness he’d taken with surprising resilience and calm outside these doors. He cried some forceful, sobbing tears, yelping and whimpering with pain, but mostly they were silent, and hopeless. As they settled on his face, they were cold, sharp and metallic. He didn’t wipe them away. Why bother? There was no-one here to see them, to judge them, not yet. Instead, he sat on his bed, practicing breathing to loosen his deathly grip on the precious lifeline of a book in his arms, and to steady himself in the wide, hopeless, Jemma-less, idea-less void in which he now hung.

A soft knock on the door alerted him to someone’s presence. With a deep breath, he beckoned them in, and Daisy entered gently, as unobtrusively as possible, and shut the door behind her. He could see the shadows of tears in her eyes, and her own worry and stress in the way she clawed at the arms of her jacket.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

Fitz shook his head. Maybe he was hoping this whole trip would disappear from his memory, maybe he was ashamed, maybe he just didn’t know where to begin, but either way, he’d be glad to put it behind him. 

“Do you want a hug?” Daisy offered. 

Fitz nodded, and shuffled to make room for Daisy. She smiled gently as she settled into the space he’d left, and hugged him tightly, holding herself too him like she was a sponge that could soak up all his misery and heartbreak. She held onto him until her arms started aching, and longer when he hugged her back, and bent so that his head could almost rest on her shoulder. 

“Are you okay?” she wondered, seeing the tears on his cheeks. His lips quivered, afraid of voicing his fears aloud. 

“What if…” he croaked, “what if she’s really gone?”

Daisy took a deep breath, unsure how to answer. She was still well within a grieving process of her own, as she’d begun to accept the likelihood that Simmons wasn’t coming back well before Fitz’ increasingly frequent series of breakdowns. She couldn’t offer him hope that Simmons was still alive, let alone coming back, but she couldn’t say nothing. He was practically shaking in her arms with fear and grief, and Daisy could hardly dare to imagine the sheer agony that he must be facing, to lose someone he’d loved as much, and for as long, as he had Simmons.

“If she is…really gone…” Daisy assured him, though the thought was still hard to face even after all the time she’d had to adjust to the idea. “If she is really gone, then you’re still here. That still matters, okay?” 

Fitz nodded, drawing a ragged breath. 

“I know that.” 

“It’s okay that you’re upset,” she continued. “You know that too, right?” 

Fitz nodded again, more tears slipping down his cheeks as he took her care and validation to heart. Seeing he was clearly overwhelmed, Daisy stopped trying to engage. She drew her hand in a soothing motion up and down his arm until she felt his breathing settle and even out.

“Thanks,” Fitz mumbled eventually, sitting up and finally wiping his cheeks.

“Any time,” Daisy assured him, smiling softly as she checked that he really was okay. “Hey, have you eaten today?” 

Fitz shrugged.

“Not since the airport, but-“ 

“Alright. That’s the next stop then. Wanna come to the kitchen with me or have a night in?” 

Fitz looked around his bedroom, littered with books and papers from his relentless search. He sighed and gestured to the doorway, and then followed Daisy out into the kitchen. Already, she was babbling contentedly about a new technique she was learning and how much of a hard-ass May was being. She probably knew he wasn’t paying attention. Fitz promised himself to ask her to recount some of her stories when his mind was on the ball, but for now he was content to follow her to the kitchen and help her keep him in the land of the living after his hardest blow so far.

 _Tomorrow,_ he promised himself, and tried to relax. _Tomorrow._ At least for now, there was the spring in Daisy’s step and the shine of her eye, even after all she’d been through, to remind him.


	23. Bobbi & Fitz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during the S3 hiatus. Canon compat.  
> Bobbi helps Fitz train & certify for his missions searching for Simmons.  
> Rshps: Bobbi & Fitz, Fitz & May (mentioned), Fitz + the team.

“Watch out for the-“

“Kickback, I _know,_ ” Fitz resisted the urge to roll his eyes, clenching his jaw and firing instead. An inch or so off a perfect bullseye, but still satisfying. “I‘ve actually been building these things half my life, so-“

He finished his sentence with another two rounds, suddenly itching to shake Bobbi off his shoulder as he felt, with adrenaline-heightened senses, every frustratingly not-Simmons inch of her too-tall, not-quite-close-enough presence.

“I’m just trying to look out for you,” Bobbi rebutted, “You know May would absolutely –“

His hands trembled, part exertion and part rage. With a sigh, he dumped the pistol and the earmuffs on the small bench and turned to Bobbi, expression hard.

“If _May_ wanted a say in any of this, she should have been here.”

“Come –“ Bobbi hobbled out of the way as Fitz shoved past her to catalogue the ammunition he’d used and check out. “Come on, that’s not her fault.”

“How do you know?” he snapped, turning back again. “Do you know where she is? Did she tell you _anything?”_

“She doesn’t _have_ to tell me anything! Her vacation’s none of my business!”

 _“Three months,_ Bobbi! And don’t try telling me she hasn’t heard.”

“Maybe she hasn’t. Maybe Coulson’s keeping it a secret.”

“Mack’s got it in his head Simmons is dead. Most of the lab thinks the same. I reckon he’s got Hunter too, or almost. And maybe you?”

Bobbi’s lips parted and closed again, powerless to defend herself, and through his shield of bitterness, Fitz felt his heart sink a little further.

“They think she’s dead,” he repeated, quieter and harrowed. “This is more than a secret. Either there’s something going on that I don’t know about, or May knows and has decided to do nothing. I don’t blame her. Choice between this, and Daisy, and that –“ he gestured to Bobbi’s crutches – “against a fresh start with Andrew, no, I get it. But Jemma trusted her. With her life and with mine. She doesn’t get to up and leave and pretend she still cares about us.”

Fitz shouldered his bag and nodded at the shooter’s cubicle.

“Did I pass?”

“Fitz -“

“Don’t-“ _Don’t ‘oh, Fitz,’ me._ “Just – did I pass or not?”

Bobbi sighed. “Of course you did. Sign out something small, generic and inconspicuous. And…don’t die out there.”

“I thought that was Hunter’s thing?”

Bobbi smiled gently. A little sadly. By now, Fitz was used to that expression, but he still hadn’t quite shaken the odd feeling of vulnerability he got from the piercing, concerned eyes that went with it.

“You seem like you could use the reminder.”


	24. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> near-future, canon compat, S4.  
> Bus Kids, Skimmons, FitzSimmons.

“Well.” Simmons drew in a deep breath. “They didn’t kill her. I suppose we have that to be grateful for.”

Fitz drew his finger up and down her arm gently, while his other arm shifted on her hip, drawing her just a little closer. Gratitude was a far away feeling, as the two of them stared through the glass, to where Daisy was laid out on a hospital bed, grey and almost lifeless, but still breathing. Gratitude meant nothing behind fear, anger, overwhelming love, and the cloying, sour taste of the knowledge that they’d been here – almost here – far too many times before.

Then Simmons sighed and pulled away, checking on her clothing and hair as she pulled herself back together. Fitz frowned and turned after her, concerned.

“I can’t… I shouldn’t stay,” she explained, listening to herself and practicing the modulation of her voice as she spoke. “If I spend too long with her, the Director might think my loyalty’s been compromised. I have to go.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, overwhelmed by the thought of abandoning Daisy, who had been on her own for too long – far too long, and too many times. She’d spent as long as she’d dared cleaning and dressing Daisy’s arms, drowning in the desire to be close to her, and the pain of seeing what she’d done to herself and why, and all the memories it brought up on top of that. Tears that Simmons had been holding in all day – all month, all this time? – began to seep out. She couldn’t just walk away. What kind of friend was she, to do that?

“Stay just a little longer,” Fitz invited, opening his arms, trying to give her an excuse to surrender, but Simmons shook her head.

“No. It’s better for all of us if I leave. It’s the only way to keep…to keep Daisy safe. It’s better this way.”

She wiped her tears away and nodded repeatedly, instilling her own wisdom into herself. She was right. Sometimes being right was painful, but she was sure, and if sacrifices had to be made, she would make them.

Fitz walked over at this, and when she raised her hands in protest, prepared to bat him away, he raised his own hands, palms outward, proclaiming his innocence. Promising that he no longer intended to sway her. Simmons stilled, awaiting his next move, and watched as he slowly reached out and unclipped the orange card from her lapel.

“Then leave,” he offered. “Leave with me. We’ll have dinner in our room, watch a little something, do a little something else…”

Swinging the orange card around his finger, he drifted toward the doorway. Simmons stayed in place, watching. Was he offering what she thought he was offering?

He stopped in the doorway, and turned his head to face her.

“I’ll make sure the cameras cover for you. Tell Daisy I’ll see her tomorrow.”

“I will.”

Fitz kissed the card, and Simmons smiled. She brushed a finger over her lips, kissing him back, and he nodded, smiling too, and took his leave. Then Simmons, with another deep and strengthening breath, slipped through the other doors and took a seat beside Daisy.

Simmons pulled the seat right up to the bedside, and rested her elbows on the sheets, beside Daisy’s arms. She would have taken Daisy’s hand, were it not for all the fracturing, so instead, she settled for knotting her own fingers together and resting her forehead on top of the knot. She rolled her head enough to look at Daisy’s face; not as emaciated as she’d first thought, just lackluster and tired. Overworked – and, of course, sedated. Even so, Simmons smiled. It was a softer one than she’d given Fitz; a more measured, solemn one. Daisy was back. For that she was happy, if not grateful. But they were not out of the woods yet, and they might never be, and this might be the only chance for quite some time that she would have to be truly, vulnerably sincere.

She didn’t try to wipe away the tears this time. They were fighting to get out and for once she could let them, so she did. In return, they didn’t take her over. They just _were,_ glistening on her cheeks and eyelashes as she stared at Daisy’s face and reminisced, and willed all the life and love she could into her.

“I missed you,” she whispered. “I miss you.”

Daisy couldn’t hear her. Though the sedative was probably wearing off by now, she wouldn’t wake until morning. Still, it felt good to say it. Cleansing. Promising. It felt like all her hard work, finally, might just pay off. Even if it didn’t, maybe this was victory enough.


	25. Fitz & Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst, maybe a little hc?? but mostly mild angst.  
> Debriefing during the mission, Fitz must decide what to reveal about Daisy...and what to keep secret from everyone.  
> Fitz & Daisy, Fitz & Daisy & Mack, FitzSimmons.
> 
> CONTAINS 4x02 SPOILERS

“And how did you get the door open?”

“’M sorry?” 

Fitz looked up, his brain lagging behind proceedings, lingering on thoughts of Daisy, and the bitter, bubbling well of betrayal in his chest he had not realised had become so deep. He shouldn’t have spat at her but couldn’t she see? Couldn’t she see what she was doing, and how it mimicked so much that had been done to them – to both of them – before?

“The door,” the Director prodded. “How did you get it open? You said you hadn’t been able to before the ghosts came. Was it this stranger too? The one with the flaming head?” 

Fitz fidgeted with his fingers, uncomfortable. As bitter and frustrated as he felt, he was not about to throw it all away. He wasn’t even angry – not at her, anyway. Just at that greedy hollowness that was making her feel like she had to do it alone. He’d fallen victim to it himself before, and she’d come the closest out of everyone to convincing him that he was wrong. He was determined to do the same for her, especially now that he knew she was in contact with Elena. But he might not get the chance to help her if he gave her away now. And she wouldn’t get the chance to do…whatever it was she was doing, which was clearly important to her. Wasn’t all of this silence and restraint intended to protect her? Had not the last six months of wondering, and fighting for scraps of news, been for this very purpose? 

Wasn’t her absence, and his pain, and Jemma’s, and Mack’s…wasn’t it all for this?

Fitz glanced at Mack, who was standing across the room, his arms crossed and his face unreadable and stony. He was watching Fitz too, but seemed to provide no comment on what he thought Fitz should do. He had not given Daisy away yet. He could speak up at any time. Did that mean he thought they should keep her secret? Or was he conceding to Fitz’ longer relationship with her, or his closer understanding of the trust and mistrust networks on base, to determine what to do?

He cast his eyes to Jemma then, who was standing as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, in the corner, beside Coulson. Her eyes were a little teary – worried, relieved, overwhelmed. There was probably so much going on for her. Fitz felt his heart tug again over lying to her, and realised that his decision had been made; if not before, then in that moment. He could hide a mad science prototype from her if he had to. That was manageable. But there was no way he could hide her best friend from her. Not when he knew that she was as desperate, as concerned, and as hurt as he was.

“Daisy was there,” Fitz confessed. He dropped his eyes from Jemma’s immediately, but even across the room he could sense the shock, the tiny gasp of air, the way she would have rocked on her feet as if absorbing the news physically would make it easier to handle.

The Director sighed gently, understanding, and unbuttoned the bottom of his jacket as he slipped into the seat beside Fitz at the conference table.

“There now,” he assured Fitz. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Fitz blinked, and tried not to let his face screw up too much with tears. What had he just done? Given Daisy away? Was he going to be tracked now, all contact monitored? Were they going to send someone after her? Injured as she was, she could hardly defend herself properly. Had he just betrayed her after all? 

The Director pushed a glass of water toward him slowly, and though Fitz couldn’t help but feel the anxiety of interrogation creep up the back of his neck, he took the glass and drank from it greedily. The biting cold distracted him for a while, from the heat of tears and pain and panic.

“What happened?” the Director coaxed. 

Fitz once again glanced at Jemma. Not Mack, this time, in case the Director thought they were colluding. Just a man seeking his love’s support in a moment of intense stress over their mutual friend. 

“She came in after the guy with the burning skull. She turned the handle and let Mack out, and told us not to attack the skull guy. Then she left.” 

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Fitz nodded. 

“She saved my life.” Finally, Mack spoke up. Fitz almost sighed out loud with the intensity of the relief he felt when the Director turned around. 

“Sorry?” 

“Daisy – Agent Johnson saved my life, sir,” Mack insisted. “She did it knowing that I was under orders to take her in. And I’ve obeyed orders against my own choice before. Daisy knows that, and she was still prepared to endanger herself for me. She’s a good agent, sir.” 

“She’s a rogue agent, Mackenzie,” the Director qualified, “and good though she may be, she still told you not to go after this burning skull creature who killed a man! I understand she’s your friend, but clearly her values are being compromised by whoever it is she’s running with.” 

Fitz opened his mouth to object. _I’m not running with anyone,_ she’d told them. Warned them, really. But as far as the Director was concerned, that conversation had never happened. 

“Something to say, Doctor Fitz?” the Director queried. 

“Uh, nothing, sir,” Fitz back-pedalled, but it was not working, so he spun it into a different direction. “Just…that…the machine Mack was in, I’ve been thinking about what it could be. It’s extremely high-powered, looks like it might be part of some sort of transmutation process. It may have been used to create the ghost parasite, or something like it. It could help us.” 

The Director watched him for a moment longer with hawk-like scrutiny, and then beamed, as if he’d never been suspicious in the first place. 

“Excellent work! Look into that as soon as possible, please.” 

“Of course.”

The Director beamed around the room, attempting to spread reassurance. It did nothing, although the end of the debriefing was relieving enough in itself. Mack sighed, glad it was over, and wandered into the hall – eager to escape, but with nowhere to go. The Director took Coulson aside and Simmons slipped away, to Fitz, who was glued to his seat, staring absently at the table in front of him, where his arms were outstretched; the pale, soft, fleshy parts facing upward. He couldn’t shake the image from his mind, of Daisy’s arms. Layers upon layers of bruises; black, blue, green, yellow, purple. _She must be in so much pain,_ Fitz thought, Daisy’s hard expression behind his eyes. And he’d only added to that.

“Fitz?” Jemma prompted, gently shaking his shoulder. 

He sighed and stretched, but in the end, Fitz could not bring himself to reassure her, that he was okay or that Daisy was. He couldn’t tell her about Daisy’s arms, her pain. He couldn’t tell her about their secret conversation, not now. Maybe not for a long time yet. He could only put his hand over Simmons’ for a long, heavy moment. Then he stood up, and kissed her hand before he let it fall. 

Simmons peered up at Fitz with concern, and with a flicker of devious hope. He pushed Daisy’s suffering further into his deeper thoughts, and tried to mimic it. 

“We’ve got work to do.”


	26. Fitz & Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fitz takes a bullet for Daisy. Brief angst, but mostly a mix of apologies and jokes all round.  
> Contains 4x02 spoilers.

“Daisy, lookout!”

“FITZ _NO!”_

Daisy had only just managed to turn, arm outstretched to stop whatever was coming at her, when the bullet hit. Her shockwave, sent out too late, only knocked Fitz further off balance, and he stumbled and fell, clutching at his middle. Daisy flung the shooter against the wall and let him slide down – unconscious, hopefully, but she’d check later. She ran over to Fitz, feeling her breath catch in her throat as he groaned in pain.

“Fitz! _Fitz!_ Stay with me!” She batted his face, tearing up, on the edge of frantic. He was pale and sweating, his face screwed up in agony, and Daisy could have pummelled him for jumping in front of her like that. If he made it through this, she just might. In her head, she cursed furiously, threatening all manner of violence to him in an effort to scare him into surviving, until she realised he was muttering words: 

“Get your knee off my chest.”

After a moment of confusion, she really did give him a punch. 

“Asshole!” she cursed, wiping away tears. 

“You were the one slapping me into next Sunday!” Fitz retorted, and then groaned again as he pulled on his very real wound. Tears from the pain of it stung his eyes, and when his joviality suddenly dried up, Daisy hovered on edge again. Fitz felt where the bullet had hit, running his fingers over it to check the state of it.

“Bless you, Stephanie Kwolek,” he muttered. 

“What?” Daisy frowned in confusion, and tried to pull his hand away to get a better look at the injury. It was at his side, near where the panels of Kevlar in his bulletproof vest met. The bullet had shattered or exploded, but only a few pieces of shrapnel had made it through the more vulnerable material to his skin. 

“So you’re okay?” 

Fitz nodded. Daisy sighed with such relief she bowed her head, so that her hair draped onto Fitz’ chest. 

“Still feels like someone threw a tonne of bricks at me, though,” Fitz muttered.

“Never do that again!” Daisy ordered, breathless, cutting off any other attempt he might make to get her to laugh. When he saw the panic and pain in her eyes, he stopped trying.

“Hey, I’m okay,” he assured her sincerely. “Really, I am.” 

“Yeah, _this_ time,” she insisted. There was a bite to her tone, and to the way she furiously scrubbed at her tears, that made Fitz’ brow furrow with concern. Observing all that she was holding in, and the way her eyes strayed from his injury, from him, as though she couldn’t bear to look even though she’d seen so many bullet wounds before… His heart couldn’t help but soften. 

“Daisy…I’m sorry,” he apologised. “I didn’t mean those things I said, not like that. I was hurt, and mad, and worried. I thought…I thought you’d abandoned us. I didn’t understand what must’ve been going through your head, but I think I do now. You think you’re cursed, right?”

Daisy didn’t reply, and Fitz gave up craning his neck to look at her. He stared up at the roof, remembering the feeling of being stuck in that endless loop of loss and destruction. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Daisy dropped her bottom to the floor and pulled her knees up to her chest. 

“Robbie thinks I’m paying penance,” she murmured. 

They sat in silence on that for a while, unsure what to make of it, what to say. 

Then, outside in the hall, there were footsteps and the sound of gunfire, and both of them jumped back into reality. They had work to do. 

“Right, enough feeling sorry for ourselves then?” Fitz invited with bravado.

“Yep.”  
  
Daisy sprung to her feet, and offered her arm to pull Fitz up after him. Fitz moaned, dragging on his wound, and on his bruised ribs and muscles. Finally expecting his injury visually, he whined to himself. So much pain and drama over a tiny flesh wound?

“Don’t tell Jemma about this,” Fitz begged, a final plea before they ran back into the fray. 

Daisy eyed his injury, and his desperate expression, and nodded. 

“If anyone asks, you totally took down five ninjas with your badass kung fu skills right before my very eyes.”

Fitz laughed and shook his head. 

“Lord, I missed you,” he breathed. She was a rollercoaster, as always. As he adjusted his grip on his pistol, so that he could raise it steadily enough without the shrapnel flaring up, he smiled to himself. He nodded to Daisy once he was ready, and they sprung back into the hall, racing after the sound of footsteps and gunfire from earlier. Despite the flaring pain in his side, Fitz grinned. He could’ve sworn he heard her whisper, “Daisy will do,” before the fight began again.


	27. Team Playground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Tradition"  
> Shameless (secular) Christmas fluff. Everyone's alive bc it's a Christmas Miracle.  
> Team Bus + Trip + Hunter + Bobbi + Lincoln.

“This is wrong,” Fitz grumbled. “It’s gross and disgusting and _wrong._ Christmas is - is for roasts and hot chocolate, and snow. Lots and lots of snow. And coldness, generally. And none of these ruddy flies!"

For the hundredth time, he swatted irritably.

“Chin up,” Daisy prompted him, swinging her hand aimlessly around her face to keep her eyes clear. “At least you have a pretty girl to rub lotion all over you. A pretty girl in a _very_ skimpy bikini, might I add. You’re welcome.”

From where she was, indeed, rubbing sunscreen on Fitz’ back, Simmons pelted the bottle of it at Daisy, who shrieked and ducked aside. It buried itself harmlessly in the sand, a congealed mess coagulating where spilled lotion and sand met.

“The only reason I’m wearing anything this ‘skimpy’ in this weather is because it feels like my skin might just boil off if I get any hotter!” Simmons snapped. “I certainly hope Coulson’s having a good time because we’re all three of us going to get cancer at this rate.” 

Daisy chuckled. 

“Come on, it’ll be a little peeling skin. Embrace it.” 

“I feel obligated to warn you that people of East-Asian descent have higher risks of melanoma-related cancers,” Simmons insisted. 

“Yeah, well, people of alien descent don’t believe in the sun, so…” 

“The great thing about science is, it’s true whether you believe it or not,” Fitz quipped. 

“The great thing about science,” Daisy corrected, “is that it dictates that you will both be cooler, and therefore will stop whining, once you get in the water. So get a move on!”

“That is true,” Simmons agreed. “At this point I don’t even care about skin cancer. I just need some damned cool!” 

Daisy leapt to her feet and raced to the shore, splashing gleefully into the water. Simmons laughed and dashed after her, leaving Fitz to curse and turn and spray sand everywhere as he wondered if the last inches of his back had been covered. The last thing he needed was to be strapped into a plane seat for hours on end with the skin of his spine burnt raw. In the end, he slapped the remainder of the lotion from his hand on to the most difficult portion, and ran after the girls. He’d had worse injuries and frankly, the second-degree burns on his feet from concrete and hot sand were going to be enough of a problem.

Meanwhile, May sat at a picnic bench higher up the beach. Everyone’s towels and bags were at her feet – which, upon watching sand and sun lotion flung about so carelessly, she saw was becoming a wiser decision with every passing moment. She puffed air into her face every now and then with pamphlet featuring a short cartoon ‘dictionary’ of Australian slang from a nearby fish-and-chip stand. She didn’t swim much these days, but damn, she’d been held in cooler prison cells; that was for sure.

Coulson, meanwhile, seemed almost as unaffected as Daisy. While he was sweating a little more profusely than usual, his energy seemed to abound. With a gleeful grin he eased his way from the grass onto the sand and down to the picnic table, flip-flops clacking and spraying sand wildly, arms full of so many bags and boxes and tools May almost was tempted to get up and help him. 

Almost. 

Instead, she sighed, wishing she had a mojito or some other such tropical drink in her hand that was warranted by these temperatures, and settled for the amusement that was watching Coulson unload his armfuls onto the table itself.

“This was a fantastic idea!” Coulson declared. “May! Look!” 

He showed her all manner of chocolate biscuits (in this weather?), humorous beer coolers, tiny candy-canes, fruit-mince pies, and his pride purchase, a simple but elegant set of tongs and the largest packet of sausages May thought she’d ever seen. And four tubes of what appeared to be some kind of paint.

“I got green and yellow, because – well, that’s what they do here. And this colour, I think it’s supposed to be red, because they’re the Christmas colours. And then blue because well, it seemed like a neutral sort of colour and I’ve never asked anyone here if they don’t do Christmas, I just sort of assumed –“ 

“I’m sure nobody will be offended by the concept of a dinner and gathering,” May pointed out, with a barely perceptible shrug. “That’s all I’m here for.”

“So you’ll be having the blue, then? Great!” Coulson popped the cap off the blue stick, and grinned at her, knowing his chances of being let near her face with a tube of zinc – which was in reality, unnecessarily coloured sunscreen - were low. 

“I’ll take a blue,” offered a new voice. May and Coulson turned toward the sound. May beamed, and Coulson cheered. Bobbi, in a crop top and shorts that somehow made her seem even taller, was making her way down the hill toward them in leaps and starts as the hot sand scalded her feet. Behind her, Hunter emphatically cursed the carpark pavement, apparently forgetting that he was brandishing two foldable chairs in each hand. 

“Bobbi! Glad you could make it!” Coulson greeted, passing her the zinc stick. “I’m just about to put these ‘snags’ on the ‘barbie’!” 

“I think it’s ‘chuck,’ Phil,” May prompted. “You ‘chuck’ them on the barbie.” 

Bobbi snorted with laughter, nose crinkling even as she drew the blue line across it. 

“Geez, it’s warm out though, isn’t it?” Bobbi remarked. “When are the boys getting here with drinks? Also, yellow please?” 

“Any second.” Coulson tossed her the yellow zinc stick too, and she drew a yellow line under the blue, and beamed. 

“None for you, May?” 

“You look majestic,” May praised, deadpan. None for her. Confirmed. 

“Did you at least get some blow-up toys for the kids?” Hunter piped up, finally jogging into the relative safety of the picnic area. He grinned down the beach at where Daisy, Fitz and Simmons were swimming, chatting, shouting, and occasionally splashing each other or – he suspected – dragging each other under the water.

“I think they’re old enough to buy their own,” Bobbi jested, and waved over Hunter’s head to their friends in the water. All three faces lit up, and soon enough, Daisy, Fitz and Simmons were running up the beach toward them.

“Ah, perfect timing!” Simmons cheered, clapping enthusiastically as the final members of their party – Trip and Lincoln – approached with broad grins, bearing a large eski cooler between them. Like a flock of seagulls, the party on the beach crowded them, clamouring for a drink. 

“Now remember,” Lincoln prompted, “these are all sodas.” 

“’Fizzy’ or ‘cool drink,’” Coulson corrected, reading off May’s sheet.

“ _Virgin_ sodas,” Lincoln repeated, so that the point of his statement was emphasised. 

“And this is a _virgin soda_ mojito, for the lady,” Trip offered with a flourish. 

“Read my mind.” May smiled a little.

“Now,” Trip added, “don’t anybody drown on us because if we have to call the emergency services we’re all screwed.” 

“Noted.” Daisy nodded, and raised the green zinc stick, with which she had just finished decorating herself and FitzSimmons. Job done, Trip subjected himself to being drawn on, while Lincoln and Hunter disappeared for a moment, back up to Hunter’s car. 

“Now, am I good to start on these?” Coulson checked, holding up the sausages. Nods and hums of affirmation ran around the circle, and Daisy piped up, 

“Mack, Joey and Elena said not to wait up, they’re going to Mass.” 

“Alright, so, am I on my own with these, or…” 

Coulson looked around for help, and for a moment, it looked like he was going to get it, until Hunter and Lincoln returned with an armful of pieces of yellow plastic. They scattered them onto the sand and began setting them up, and it became apparent that it was in fact a cricket set; two lots of wickets, a bat, and a ball. And a packet of tennis balls for good measure.

Fitz glanced over his shoulder and shrugged at Coulson, as if it was a simple rule of nature that helping cook lost out to beach cricket. 

“I guess that’s a yes.” Coulson sighed, smiling softly as the British voices amongst them began to argue the loudest about teams, sports, and how best to translate the sport into a beach setting.

May stood up smoothly, waving Bobbi, Trip and Lincoln off to play while she helped set up the barbecue, and buried the probably-by-now-molten chocolate-coated biscuits deep in the ice of the eski. By the time they finally dug out the slightly deformed biscuits, it was time to gather on the beach and watch the sun go down together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: according to my research, that East Asian melanoma fact is true. Also, do not drink on Australian beaches, it's illegal. And also generally, don't drink (copiously) and swim please.
> 
> PPS: Australia has many great biscuits. the ones I'm imagining are Tim Tams which to this day are the greatest biscuits ever.


	28. Bus Kids + Coulson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Decorate. (also inspired by Clark's being from a Jewish family).  
> Fluff.  
> Fitz, Simmons and Daisy decorate Coulson's office for Hanukkah.
> 
> Disclaimer: written by a gentile from the perspective of three bumbling gentiles trying to do their best to help Coulson celebrate. I hope it goes without saying that this is intended to be respectful and that any mistakes or misrepresentations made are well-intended, and any offence caused is apologised for.

for [AOS Advent 2016](http://aosadvent2016.tumblr.com/). Prompt: Decorate

the information I used/Jemma is reading comes largely from [this site](http://www.chabad.org/holidays/chanukah/article_cdo/aid/103868/jewish/How-to-Light-the-Menorah.htm) which I found quite useful

-

“It’s supposed to be next to a window,” Jemma hissed, flicking the page up and down on the tablet in case she had missed something. “It says ‘a window facing the street’.” 

“Jemma, we’re underground,” Fitz reminded her. 

“Yeah is this even like, legal?” Daisy glanced toward the door of Coulson’s office, on edge. “I mean with um…”

“Kosher?” Fitz put in. Jemma ignored them, staring intently at the screen. It glowed almost painfully bright in the darkness of what they had intended to be a quick in-and-out well-meaning surprise. 

“It’s about being visible,” Jemma assessed. “What about that mantle there? That way it’s visible from the whole office and I think most of the windows outside it.”

“Sounds good.” 

Daisy switched her attention to Fitz, who was staring at the chosen mantle with an odd shine of responsibility and reverence in his eyes. He tightened his grip around the menorah he had been chosen to carry. 

“I’m not so sure about this. Shouldn’t we have blessed it or something?” 

“It’s beautiful and you made it with love and respect,” Jemma insisted. “That should be enough. And besides, I’m sure Coulson won’t mind.” 

“But…couldn’t we just be bringing back things he doesn’t want to think about? I mean, Audrey…”

Daisy fixed him with a weighted gaze, burdened by loss and cradled by the love those losses represented. But her words were light.

“There’s only one way to find out.” 

Fitz nodded to himself. A swooping feeling in the pit of his stomach gave him the somehow urgent sensation that this was important: a reminder of the significance of what had been until minutes earlier, a simple if elegant piece of metal in his hands. He set the menorah on the mantle gently, and adjusted it until it was as close to centre as his human eyes would allow. Daisy stepped up after him, with a jug of olive oil in her hands. 

“Do we pour it or no?” She glanced back at Jemma, who scanned the page, wishing she’d had more time to read this all the day before. 

“No,” Jemma said. “It has to be each night.” 

Daisy nodded and left the jug on the mantle, next to the menorah, instead. Then it was Jemma’s turn to step up. She had a slight variation on the typical candle for this purpose. It still beeswax, but with a catchment system that meant the candle replenished itself as it burned. Sentinel candle indeed. Jemma nestled it into the space Fitz had left for it in the centre of the menorah, and set a box of matches down beside it. 

“Okay. I think that’s everything.”

The three of them snuck out the way they had come.

- 

Coulson didn’t return to his office until late. It had been a satisfying day, but a long one, and he was looking forward to the more relaxed weekend-like atmosphere of the days surrounding Christmas. As he flipped through the manila files in his arms slowly, a final check that the day’s work was done, Coulson ambled past the vestiges of Christmas that had stumbled through his door – a few reindeer, some tinsel, and on his desk a set of bells. He shuffled a few files to the top and let it rest, heaving them down onto his desk with a sigh. He turned and reached up and stretched, leaning into the pull of his back and arm and shoulders, and that’s when he saw it – the menorah on his mantle.

He blinked, surprised.

He looked around. If someone had left it for him, they weren’t nearby.

He stepped up, and studied their handiwork closer.

If someone had left it for him, they were very good.

Coulson took a match from the box, and lit the shamash candle, and began, insofar as he could remember it, the first night’s blessing.


	29. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Warmth  
> Set in/around 4x08. Contains some 4x08 spoilers.  
> After Daisy's impromptu press conference, she's feeling overwhelmed and FitzSimmons step in to lend their support.  
> Relationships: Daisy & Simmons, Daisy & Fitz & Simmons.

for [AOS Advent 2016](http://aosadvent2016.tumblr.com/). Prompt: Warmth

-

 

_I need get out._

_Out, out, out out,_

_Out, out, out…._

Daisy repeated the thought to herself, as steady as breathing, while her heartrate accelerated in her ears and she stumbled through the hall and out into the alley. Vibrations – noise, stress, cars, talking – swelled until she couldn’t breath through the cacophony and she had to cling to conscious thought to muster the energy to fling herself into the air. 

Only, there, there was nowhere to go. The skyscrapers were too high, the streets too wide, for her dazed mind. She had not prepared or given herself direction, and so she drifted in the thin air until the lack of oxygen choked her movement like blowing out a candle flame. Daisy blacked out for a second, her last sensation being the wind sucking her back down.

She recovered in time to feel herself flying toward the pavement, and reached out her arms, quaking on instinct to break her fall. She staggered on landing, but with no bones broken and no significant damage, and as she lay on the pavement catching her breath, she was more grateful than ever for all her failed attempts at near-flying that had trained the catch instincts into her, and not to mention, for Fitz’ extremely high standard of work on the gauntlets. 

It was a fleeting thought, soon drowned out by flashing lights and the panic that rose again – in her throat, in her bones – as a crowd of reporters flocked around her. Then there was a hand on her shoulder, Mace, assuring them that she was not responsible for the danger. 

Daisy didn’t catch much else. Her mind swam through the journalists’ interrogations and she let Mace spin the PR as she thought on his words, and of the words of everyone else in that building she had fled. The words of the people she loved, and who loved her. Harsh, angry words. Soft, loving words. All trying to tell her one thing. Maybe it was the lack of oxygen speaking, but maybe they were right. Maybe she didn’t need to get out anymore, to keep her distance. Maybe she just needed to go home. 

So Daisy didn’t fight it as Mace steered her away from the crowd. He kept a hand on her back – wow, she must be really out of it, but still she followed his direction – and led her back. She stumbled inside. Fitz and Simmons swept her up, put a jacket over her shoulders and led her down the hall, bickering as per usual. They led her to the lab and set about doing some tests. They carried on in partnership, non-invasive both literally and figuratively, and finally a glass of cool water brought Daisy’s feeling back. 

“Hey,” Fitz greeted, noticing the dazed look fade from her eyes. “You okay?” 

“Yeah, I just-“ Daisy pressed a hand over her heart. It felt uncomfortable in her chest, like it was too big, or too far left, or something. “I just freaked, I don’t know what happened. Sorry.” 

“You’re incredibly sleep deprived, is what happened,” Simmons scolded, bustling into the room with a tray of food. “And very stressed, both physically and mentally. You probably had a panic attack. And then you went and half suffocated yourself, which _wasn’t_ wise.” 

“’Honestly, Daisy,’” Daisy continued for her, exaggerating her tone. “’You’re going to give your father and I a heart attack. I’m very disappointed in you, young lady! Go to your room!’”

Simmons frowned.

“I’m not disappointed in you. I’m disappointed in the rest of us for making you feel like you had to go and throw yourself at the sky to get a moment of space.”

Daisy shook her head. 

“It’s not your fault. I’m used to dealing with things on my own, and when they get bad, I – I just don’t really trust anyone to deal with that except me.” She sighed. “Good news is, it looks like I’m back! Mace roped me into some pro-Inhuman PR spin so…you guys are stuck with me now.”

She’d meant it as a joke, although she had to tread carefully. Her self-depreciation was becoming more transparent by the second and she almost expected a pseudo-lecture from one or both of FitzSimmons to reassure her of how valued and loved she was. Instead, Simmons’ face lit up, and she beamed over Daisy’s shoulder at Fitz, who was smiling too. Fitz nodded, and extricated himself from the room with a skip in his step. Daisy frowned uncertainly.

“What have you guys got planned?” she wondered warily. “I appreciate whatever it is but honestly, I’m too tired for a party or a ceremony or a movie or anything really. I just want to shower, and sleep. And maybe eat.” 

“Or fall asleep while eating in the shower?” Simmons offered, smiling as if at a fond memory. Daisy smiled back, and massaged her wrists. 

“Actually, that sounds great.” 

But when Fitz returned, it was with neither food nor towels nor bedding, but car keys. Daisy’s eyes flicked between Fitz and Simmons, curious. Suspicious. They cheerfully instructed her to dress in plain clothes and follow them and she did, her curiosity eventually swallowed by exhaustion again until she was all but praying that the car was made of beds. 

It wasn’t, but she slept anyway, and woke up to Simmons gently shaking her shoulder. They’d pulled up outside FitzSimmons’ apartment building. As Daisy clambered out of the car, Simmons pressed their key into her hand. 

“The fridge is full, the bath is drawn, the bed is made,” she said. “Enjoy.”


	30. May & Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Journey  
> May speaks at Daisy's Directorial Inauguration.  
> Future fic, canon compatible.

for [AOS Advent 2016](http://aosadvent2016.tumblr.com/). Prompt: Journey

sequel to [Words of Wisdom](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7502805) (Fitz-Daisy brotp) but can stand alone

-

When May stepped up to the microphone, Daisy could have sworn she was smiling. Daisy tensed her hands and held her breath, as May waited for silence to fall again before she spoke. 

“Good evening, everyone. My name is Melinda May. Many of you may know me as agent, as administrator, as Director. Even perhaps, as the Cavalry.” Her voice was even and strong, but she paused, still a little shaken by the thought, before she went on. 

“I have built a reputation in these halls and I have been fortunate enough to stand on this stage myself and take leadership of an organisation that has been very dear to me, and very influential in my life – in good ways, and in bad. I hope and believe I have served it well, and I hope and believe that my successor will do the same.” 

Daisy took another deep breath. _Here we go, it’s me, she’s talking about me. Saying words. Words that are nice. About me. To thousands of people. Be cool, Daisy, be cool._

“Daisy Johnson, ladies and gentlemen, I can safely say is one of the finest agents I have had the pleasure of instructing. She came to us a hot headed, rebellious troublemaker, but she has since grown into a poised, disciplined and principled young woman, who I have no doubt will lead Shield with every ounce of integrity and strength she has. And that is a lot, I promise. 

“Daisy has been through quite the journey to get here today. She’s been through three names. Jobs, homelessness, quarantine, exile. She’s found her family and lost them again, and she’s found her identity as an Inhuman and embraced that, and has helped Inhumans find new purposes and new acceptance in this expanding, ever-changing world. She’s been put through the ringer, struggled to the moon and back, and still she fights on the front line every day for Shield and the world we stand for. 

“Every day, I have watched Agent Johnson grow in discipline and direction, and I have watched her suffer things that too many others in this room have suffered, and I have been amazed, over and over, too see her recover. To see her hold onto that passion, that empathy, and that heart that have shone inside her since day one. If Daisy is the closest thing to a miracle I will ever experience, I can die happy.

“I couldn’t be more proud of her, if she were my own daughter.”

May glanced to the side, almost imperceptibly moving her head, and Daisy felt her heart swell. Tears pricked at her eyes.

“Daisy Johnson, everybody,” May concluded, and waved for Daisy to stand.


	31. Bobbi & Fitz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Bobbi & Fitz bond over recovery  
> set during the S2/S3 hiatus

Bobbi Morse wasn’t one for careful. Precise, yes. Well-planned, absolutely. But careful?

She gritted her teeth, snarling the pain away as she slid out of bed and to her feet. Her knee still felt like it was made out of pieces of gravel. There were some steel plates in there, holding everything together, but one wrong twist and it felt like her whole leg might shatter.

Careful was too much like gentle. Too much like hesitant. Too much like weak.

She hobbled down the hallway, forcing her legs long, forcing her back up and her chin high, forcing herself to keep a straight face as tears from the pain of it slipped down her cheeks.

Careful was too much like pulling back. Like giving up.

As she emerged from the hallway into the living room, her knee shuddered a warning that it couldn’t take her full weight anymore. She skipped and hopped and hobbled to the bench and braced her arms against it. Her breaths stuttered in and out of her chest. She tried to make them deeper, longer, calmer, but her lungs resisted. Her body was screaming. She could still feel the way the bullet had ripped through her. Ripped everything away from her.

Bobbi Morse hated careful with a passion.

But maybe careful could have saved her from this mess.

“Bobbi?” Fitz wondered. “Are you okay?”

Wiping her cheeks quickly, just in case, she smiled a stiff, pained smile.

“Sure. You?”

His shoulders were hunched. His clothes wore four days of wrinkles and his face, as many without sleep. He reached for the tin of tea in the higher cupboard, and that seemed to take him as much effort as it would have taken her, with four broken ribs and a near-shattered hand.

“Haven’ been sleeping,” Fitz elaborated as she stared. “I’ve got- I’m on- I’m close. I’m really….really…” He sighed as the effort of finishing became too much. Bobbi matched the sound, hobbling into the kitchen and resting back against the bench.

“Well, you’ve got something on me,” she remarked as Fitz pulled down two teacups. “I’m nowhere near close. Still can hardly stand up, stupid –“ She growled at herself and bit her lip, trying not to acknowledge it, not to give it the satisfaction.

“I get it,” Fitz said, emptying the kettle into the teapot and carrying it over to her. He circled back for the cups, decidedly keeping his eyes off her – taking pains, Bobbi deduced, not to watch in case she was crying.

“You know,” he continued, moving like it was ritual, “it wasn’t that long ago I used to burn my hands doing this.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Kettle was too heavy, I couldn’t stop it shaking, sloshed it everywhere…I’m pretty sure Jemma cried.”

“Must have been awful.”

“Must have been.” Fitz set the cups down between them and paused, staring at them, somewhere far away for a moment.

“Did you guys…” Bobbi probed as gently as she could. “Did you guys make up?”

“We talked,” Fitz said, blinking his daze away and moving to pour the tea. “We sorted a lot out. It was good. We were good…but…I’ve still got a lot of making up to do.”

“I know the feeling,” Bobbi mused as Fitz pushed one of the teacups toward her. She picked it up and raised a reluctant toast. “To the long road.”

“To the long road.”


	32. Fitz & Simmons & Bobbi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I didn't know you could sing.
> 
> When Simmons disappears from Fitz' care one night, he finds her with Bobbi instead.  
> Rshps: Bobbi & Fitz, Bobbi & Simmons, FitzSimmons

Fitz frowns and rolls over, tugging the blankets close around him as the cold air finally manages to chill him from his slumber. After a moment, he notices suddenly that a weight, a presence, has disappeared from his side. He sits upright and looks around. She’s not in the room. Cursing at the cold night air, but a little grateful for the way it was already forcing him awake, he dragged his cardigan over his shoulders, crossed his arms to hold it closed, and padded out into the hall. He braced himself to hear her crying in the bathroom, but instead, a soft, crooning voice drifted down the hall to him.

_I have a dream, a song to sing  
To help me cope, with anything_

A wondrous smile begins to take over his confused, concerned frown as he creeps out into the living room. Bobbi is bringing a cup of tea to Simmons, who’s curled up quietly on the couch. Fitz slows down and listens.

_If you see the wonder of a fairytale  
You can take the future…_

Noticing Fitz’ presence, Bobbi trails off into humming and beckons him in, leading him into the kitchen where she pours them each a cup of tea.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “She gets lost sometimes, and stresses. I should have -“

“She’s okay. Just tired. Barely even waited for the kettle to boil before she drifted off again.” Bobbi smiles. “It’s good you’re looking out for her, though.”

Fitz smiles, and takes the cup of tea she pushes across the bench to him. Both of their gazes drift back to the living room, where a restricted view of Simmons’ hand dangling off the couch and a few locks of hair hanging over the end is enough to help them both breathe easier.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” Fitz remarks after a moment.

“I can’t,” Bobbi smiles down at her own cup. “It’s just a song I learnt at my own counselling. I thought she could use it.”

“You did counselling?” Fitz frowns up at her.

“Oh yeah, big time. Hated it with a burning passion, but I’m still here, so what can ya do?” She sighs, and with more gravity, continues, “It’s really good to see that she has so many people taking care of her. I didn’t have that.”

“You’re one of those people too, you know,” Fitz insists. “She needs you. She still only says a few sentences a day but she talks about you.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah, big time.” Fitz grins and, affecting Simmons’ voice, demonstrates, “’Fitz, did you know, Bobbi this,’ ‘Fitz, did you know, Bobbi that’ ‘this one time, Bobbi existed! It was amazing!’”

Bobbi has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stop a cackle of laughter breaking the serenity of the night. Seeing the smile in her eyes and blushing cheeks, Fitz takes a satisfied sip of his tea and turns his eyes back to Simmons’ sleeping form. Under his breath, he finds himself humming.


	33. Daisy & Coulson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Daisy comes out to Coulson
> 
> Set in an early S4 AU in which Daisy crashed with a ladyfriend over her vigilante period & now that she’s back with the team, she asks Coulson to make arrangements. Angst/H/C (angst mostly not homophobia related).
> 
> -
> 
> It's AOSBrotpWeek on Tumblr! Prompt me in the comments, or on tumblr (@theclaravoyant).

“Knock knock,” Daisy says, after knocking, and cringes when her body releases an uncomfortable laugh of its own accord. 

“Come in.” Coulson looks up, and when he sees her expression and the way she lingers uncertainly in the doorway, he pushes his work away. Gesturing to the chair on the opposite side of his desk, he takes a guess at the problem. 

“So, you and that girl..?”

Daisy studies her fingers. In Shield’s desire to track her down, they’d brought in a young woman named Hayley, who’d been helping and housing Daisy for some time. One thing had led to another and they’d fallen into a slightly twisted summer romance from which Daisy wasn’t sure Hayley would ever be able to fully extract herself. The people around her tended to die, but it was so soft and sweet and such a different world in that haven of having run, of being away, that she’d almost led herself to believe she could get out of her loop.

“You need to send her away,” Daisy insists. “She can’t get wrapped up in this.” 

“In what? In you?” Coulson frowns. 

Daisy sighs. 

“We were together,” she confesses. “We were…And we’re not anymore. Because I’m coming back and she needs to go. She _needs_ to go, Coulson.”

He studies her expression. The fact that she’s trying to hide it from him only adds to its layers of meaning; fear, desperation, frustration. Love. 

“You love this girl?” 

Daisy shakes her head, trying to resist the urge to fidget. 

“Look, I don’t know,” she explains. “We were only together for a while. It was nice. But I can’t – I can’t trap her here, like the others. I have a fucked up romantic life and if…if you can stop it, if you can be the bad guy this once and send her away – make up some bullshit reason about clearance or that you need to send me to Siberia or something –“ 

Coulson’s eyes had first widened in surprise, but as he watches Daisy begin to pace and fret, he stands up and rounds his desk. Daisy stops a few feet away, and meets his eyes with her own, shining with tears. Coulson smiles softly, trying to reassure her. 

“You think bad things happened to Trip and Lincoln because they loved you? Oh, Daisy, it’s not your fault. And those guys – they were heroes. They saved a lot more than you with what they did.” 

Daisy nods. She’s told herself the same a thousand times and it only sometimes works. Letting Coulson fold her into his arms, though – that one works quite often. He envelopes her now, and she takes a deep breath. 

“I’ll send Hayley away if that’s what you really want,” he promises. “It’s probably for the best, anyway. But not for the reasons you think. We live dangerous lives, Daisy, and that’s not on you, okay?” 

“I know,” she mumbles, and Coulson squeezes her a little tighter before he releases her back to arm length. 

“And – why didn’t you bring this up earlier?” 

“I wasn’t sure…how you’d take it.” 

“How I’d take what? You loving another woman?” 

“Well. Yeah.” It sounds silly that she ever doubted, now that she voices. After all they’ve been through, all they’ve learnt about each other – including the not insignificant fact that she’s an alien – she can hardly believe she ever thought he’d react any other way than with warmth and love. 

“Daisy,” he says, and she’s struck by the pleasant realisation that he’s been using the right name this whole time. “I haven’t seen many miracles in my life. Either of my lives. And I’ve died. So trust me when I say love is one of the most precious things in this world. When you find it, you hold onto that. You hold on tight.”

Daisy nods. 

“I know. I will. I – do,” she replies. “I wasn’t trying to hide anything, it’s just…this whole conversation, the whole ‘love’ thing…being raised by a bunch of nuns, and their network kinda leans to the uh, conservative side…” 

She scratches the back of her neck and blushes a little. Old white men like Coulson also typically lean to the ‘uh, conservative side’, which, if she was being honest, had also contributed to her reluctance to come out. 

“Well, you’re here with us now, and we want you to be happy Daisy. If you’re happy with another woman, celebrate that!” 

Daisy smiles, but Coulson notices the hesitation. 

“But not with Hayley,” he checks. 

“No. Not her. Not…right now.” 

“Okay. Then I’ll send her home. I’ll make sure she’s safe.”

Daisy nods. She feels the tears spring back to her eyes so she ducks toward the doorway in case Coulson gets any ideas about hugging her again. 

“Thanks, AC,” she manages, and slips away.


	34. Fitz & May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After rescuing May from the Framework, Fitz apologises for his part in it.  
> Near-future fic. Hurt/Comfort. Fitz & May. Ward mention.
> 
> Written for AOSBrotpWeek on Tumblr, for Day 3: Rare Brotp

Fitz feels May’s eyes on him as he works, going over and over the data that’s pouring onto his screen and ensuring that all the tabs and electrodes attached to her are properly secure. At first, it’s curiosity he feels, but as time wears on, it devolves into irritation. She’s glaring slightly by the time he finally meets her eyes. 

“Jemma rubbing off on you?” May speculates. Gesturing with one drip-infused, electrode-studded wrist to the rest of the contraption he’s set up around her, she explains: “Very thorough.” 

“I’m sure everything is fine,” Fitz assures her, but even his voice is fidgety. “I just want to make sure nothing is…” 

He can’t make his lips form the next word, not for lack of trying but because ‘wrong’ is the one that comes to mind and it’s not right, it’s not fair. 

“I just want to make sure I didn’t hurt you,” he corrects himself. May frowns up at him, her irritation taking a backseat to stubborn concern. 

“You?” she repeated. “What do you think you’ve done to me, exactly?” 

There’s nothing concrete he can point to – no damage, no change, except slightly less stable blood sugar and a barely perceptible loss of muscle mass. For a moment, his jaw hangs as he searches for the words but then he realises he can’t find them because he’s trying to answer the wrong question. It’s a moral question, what she’s put forward. He sighs. 

“The Framework,” he explains. “You were stuck in it for so long, I thought it could have done something to your brain. It hasn’t, but…it would’ve been on me. I invented the bloody thing.” 

He wishes it were a solid entity, so that he could cast it across the floor, smash it into pieces. But even if it was, even if he did that, it would never leave him. It’s in all the computers, on the net, surrounding him. It’s in his mind. You can’t kill an idea. He looks up at the roof, blinking back tears that sting his eyes. 

“Fitz-“ May tries to interrupt. 

“Potentiality,” he hisses. “They warn us about it from day one. I still went and got a big head, didn’t I? I still…” 

“Trusted Radcliffe?” 

Fitz drops his eyes from the roof, turning to look at May. She’s got a slight, soft, sad smile and one raised eyebrow, as though pleased that she’d finally goaded him into listening. As he watches, her expression sinks back to its solemn neutral state. 

“I trusted Ward, you know,” she says. It’s like a confession, like she’s slid it across the space between them and is waiting for his judgment. All he has is shock and confusion – and that bubbling pool of lava in his gut that is _Ward._

“W – We all did,” he tries to comfort her, but that’s not what she’s after. She shakes her head gently. 

“Not like me.” 

She takes a deep breath. It’s hard to look at him, but she does. 

“I chose him,” she explains. “Right from the beginning. I chose him. I chose all of you, except Daisy. _I_ put all of us together on that plane. _I_ put him in the position to get to you. To all of you.” 

Fitz can’t do anything but stare. The air continues to pass in and out of his chest. His heartbeat seems to disappear for a moment, but then it’s back. May’s voice grounds him as much as it shocks him. 

“Would you blame me for what happened to you?”

If he’d known at the time, he probably would have, but he shakes his head. It seems ridiculous now to think that May ever did anything but protect him. It’s both a confrontation and a comfort that he hasn’t noticed until now how deeply she’s infiltrated his circle of trust. Plus, after all the decisions Ward has made since the ocean, it’s hard to blame anyone else for his actions – least of all May, who sits before Fitz flushed and exhausted, having fought her way out of the simulation Fitz helped create, over and over, in an effort to get back to them. Ward and May. They simply do not line up in his mind. 

May nods slowly.

“Exactly,” she says. “And _if_ anything had happened to me - which it didn’t, according to you _and_ Jemma _and_ three techs Coulson had check me out - that is how I would feel about blaming you. The fault is on Radcliffe. The man who kidnapped me and strapped me into his virtual prison. Not on you.”

Fitz presses his lips together, unsure how he feels about that, unsure what to say. He’s heard similar from Jemma before and they’re probably right, but it seems to be taking a while for their words to expunge the guilt. Still, he offers her a smile. If he doesn’t hear them say it, he’ll never believe it himself, so at least it’s a start. 

May smiles back, sort of, in that May way that’s not really quite a smile, and she holds her arms out, still dotted with electrodes and IVs. 

“Am I free to go?”


	35. Fitz & May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during S2/S3 hiatus.
> 
> When Fitz comes back bloody and battered, May decides its time his Jemma-recovery-mission comes to an end. Fitz decides differently.
> 
> Fitz & May, Fitz & Bobbi, Bobbi & May.

“Abort!” May calls into the microphone, bringing all their units back in. On the screen before her, she watches Fitz pounding hell-for-leather toward the quinjet as she hears everyone else file in calmly. Bobbi peeks her head over May’s shoulder and frowns at the screen. Fitz has a head-wound, he’s bleeding, and as he approaches he starts to stumble. 

“Take over,” May orders, and Bobbi slips into her seat as Fitz throws himself up the ramp. It closes and they take off, and May watches, quietly assessing the damage, as Fitz rests his back against a crate and struggles to get his breath back. He coughs and coughs, spitting blood that May suspects was already in his mouth – he almost certainly got punched a few times in the face, with those markings – but when she tries to approach he waves her off. 

From the ground, he picks up a slip of paper. It’s covered in blood and spit but it could be gold from the way he looks at it. 

“Coordinates,” May evaluates, kneeling beside him and taking the paper. 

“I think so too,” Fitz nods, panting. He grimaces and presses his head wound. May turns her attention to it. It’s not deep, but bloody, and there’s a substantial bruise around it. 

“What happened?” she asks 

“Got whacked with a computer monitor,” Fitz explains. “Almost strangled a guy with the cable but he got out, hence the mouth bleeding. I might have to get you to show me that again.” 

“He got out? How?” 

“Had a knife.” 

Fitz gestures to where a bloody patch is spreading on his shirt. May scowls at it. It doesn’t appear to be in a particularly dangerous location, but in a vulnerable area like that an inch could have made the difference. And all for a tiny, bloody scrap of paper. 

“Fitz.” She doesn’t mean to sound condescending, but letting him down gently in this scenario is a delicate operation. “What are these coordinates for?” 

“Jemma!” he insists. “I think. I hope. Well. The burial site of this ancient tomb that has the same writing as the document I translated last month, that’ll lead to Jemma.” 

She sighs. He’s so wrapped up, so full of adrenalin and hope and need, that he can’t see her crestfallen expression. She puts a hand on his shoulder, beckoning him to look up at her, and slowly the intensity in his eyes drains away and becomes shock, hurt, betrayal. 

“You need to stop,” May insists, as gently as she can. “I’m sorry, Agent Fitz, but I can’t in good conscience let you do this anymore. You could have died, for nothing more than a whisper. You have to let it go, or next time you might not be so lucky.” 

Fitz shakes his head. He pulls away from her and struggles to his feet. 

“I’m not giving up. You can if you want but I’m not. Not ever. I’ll do it alone if I have to.” 

He glares at her and she almost lowers her eyes. 

“She’d be ashamed of you,” he hisses. “You were her hero and you’re going to leave her to die?” 

May doesn’t respond, which only seems to disappoint him further. There are tears on his cheeks, in his voice. He sets his jaw nonetheless, and hobbles away – presumably to get medical help, but she doesn’t ask after him. She’s pushed enough for now. 

When she returns to the cockpit, Bobbi has her teeth clenched and her hands tight around the stick. May slips into the copilot seat and lets her fume for a while, and as predicted, Bobbi eventually brings it up. 

“That’s it?” she demands. 

“What’s it?” 

“’I’m sorry for your loss, move on,’?” 

“I hardly said that.” 

“You might as well have. May! This is the first lead he’s had since that paper, and they’re getting fewer and farther between. You’re going to crush his hope if you keep talking like that.” 

“That was the idea,” May explains. “I love Jemma, I do, but there comes a point when it’s too much risk for too little gain. I have to keep Fitz safe. He’s my priority now.” 

Bobbi hisses. 

“You think telling him ‘no’ is going to do that, hm? He’s going to fight every person on the _planet_ if he has to, with or without our help.” 

“You think encouraging him to get his head beaten in is helping him?” May returns. “Go ahead then. I wash my hands of it. Apparently, that’s all I can do.”

Bobbi curses under her breath and gets up with a sigh. She gestures vaguely at the controls behind her and storms off after Fitz. May takes over control of the plane again and stares out into the sky. Is she doing the right thing? Is it really time to let Jemma go? 

If she were Jemma, she would want them all to do whatever it took to stop Fitz coming after her. Anything, any suffering she could face, she would not consider worth his sacrifice. Better to lock him in a tower than let him throw his life away for her, if that’s what it takes. 

Then again, if she were Fitz… 

If she were Fitz, she wouldn’t stop until her very last breath, no matter what.


	36. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: the Bus Kids passing notes bc something is up with one of them and they don't know what. H/S AU.

“Hey.” 

Jemma Simmons is busy staring at the back of her best friend’s head when she hears the voice. She ignores it at first; there are more important things to do, like half-listen to biology she’s already done, just in case, and try to figure out why Fitz hasn’t said a word all day. Concentrating on these things as intently as she is, it takes her a foolishly long second to recognise the speaker.

She looks, but Daisy is already acting – dropping a pen and then leaning over to pick it up, and in doing so, pushing a slip of paper in Jemma’s direction. Jemma reaches out with a foot and pulls it in close enough that she can duck down while the teacher’s not looking, bring it up, and unfurl it. 

_What’s wrong with Fitz?_

Jemma frowns. Daisy’s noticed too? He must have been acting similarly in Computing too, then. There goes her theory that his mood was about their upcoming dissection. 

 _Don’t know,_ she adds to Daisy’s note and lobs it back over her shoulder, where it rolls back onto Daisy’s desk. Daisy scowls down at it and rips another piece from her page. 

 _ASK HIM,_ the paper demands, when it plops back in front of Jemma. 

Jemma shoots Daisy a glare over her shoulder. As if she hadn’t already tried that? Daisy nods her head, gesturing at Fitz insistently. Jemma sighs and plucks a sticky-note from her stack, and writes out a note. 

_What’s up?_

She’s unsure how to throw it over his hunched shoulders, especially without the teacher noticing. Gritting her teeth uncertainly, she puts the note on the end of her ruler and reaches it out for him. A few of the other people in the class glance and spy and wonder, but it feels much longer than it is before the ruler reaches his back and transfers the sticky note to his jumper. Glancing back at the teacher to see that her back is still turned, Jemma jabs Fitz with the ruler for good measure before she retreats. He reaches over and pulls the note away, but she can’t tell if he reads it or not. Either way, he neither answers, nor returns the note. 

Another piece of paper bounces off Jemma’s head and almost flies off the desk. She catches it in time. It’s Daisy. 

_Tell him I say “Matilda.”_

Jemma raises her eyebrow. She glances back at Daisy, but Daisy’s head is down – apparently, taking notes for once. (Apparently). Curious, Jemma writes another sticky note saying _Daisy says Matilda_ and sticks it to Fitz’ back with the ruler. This time, when Fitz collects it, he sighs visibly. He sits up a little straighter. Writing? Jemma straightens her own back, hopeful, and in a few minutes he’s extending his own ruler back to her, with a folded sheet of paper haphazardly balancing along its length. She waits for the ruler to get within arms length and then takes both it and the paper. Then she takes a deep breath and opens it. 

 _It’s about Dad,_ he says. 

“What about him?” she’s about to consider asking, but he’s foreseen that and added. 

_He showed up this morning. Has a key somehow. Woke up to find him eating breakfast in the kitchen & he took the car._

Then underneath that: 

_Locksmith can’t come out today. He can still get inside._

Jemma crinkles her nose in disgust. The arrogance, the violation of it. She could only imagine how Fitz must feel knowing that his father could still get into his living space, his sleeping space, could touch all his things.

 _Worried about Mum_ is the last thing on the page. 

“What?” Daisy hisses, leaning over her desk at the same time as she’s attempting to kick Jemma’s from behind. “What’d he say?” 

Jemma twists to pass it to her, as quickly as possible, but not quickly enough. 

“Excuse me, girls,” Miss Weaver scolds. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?” 

Jemma freezes. Her brain barely functions at all for a second and then it’s _yes. Say something. Share something. Biology words. Go._

Nothing comes out. 

Fortunately, Daisy is already on the move, standing up out of her seat as Weaver moves over to them. 

“It’s my fault Miss Weaver,” she says. “These two were telling me to shut up, I swear.” 

“Really? Because it seems like quite the conversation you were having.” 

Daisy looks down at the large sheet of paper before her. Jemma winces. They’ve been inextricably caught out – and with something Fitz hadn’t wanted to share in the first place. 

“Daisy was – trying to set us up, Ma’am,” Jemma explains. “Me and Fitz.” 

Some of the glass sniggers, and Daisy grins. She shrugs at Miss Weaver.

“What can I say, I love love?” 

Weaver’s eyes narrow. She makes a sweeping move for the papers on Daisy’s desk and – thinking quickly, or perhaps not thinking at all – Daisy rips away the part Fitz has written on and shoves it into her mouth. A fist clenches around the other scraps, as if she’s contemplating eating them next if Weaver gets any ideas. Weaver’s sharp eyes turn back to Jemma instead. 

“And were you party to this date arrangement, Miss Simmons?” 

“Well, I – “ she hesitates, torn between confessing something disappointing, and lying to a teacher she loves. In the end she has to tell the truth, even if it’s not the whole truth. “Yes Ma’am I was.” 

“And do you think my classroom is the appropriate place for such games, Miss Simmons?” 

“No, Ma’am.” 

“And do you think Mr Fitz’ already tenuous grades would be assisted by your pestering him about his weekend plans, Miss Simmons? Miss Johnson?” 

“No, Ma’am,” Jemma manages, and hears the belated response from Daisy behind her. Weaver seems satisfied by their humiliation at that point, and retreats. 

“I hope you didn’t set any plans for this afternoon, then, girls, because both of you will be staying after school. And Mr Fitz, if he has any brains at all, will be doing his homework assignment.” 

With that, Weaver returns to the front of the class. Fitz sighs heavily. Jemma risks a glance over her shoulder one more time, and finds the same confusion on Daisy’s face. It’s not like they’re intimately familiar with his transcript, but they’ve never heard Fitz’ grades described as remotely “tenuous” in their entire academic careers. 

On her palm, Daisy writes one last note and holds it up for Jemma to read. Jemma nods. 

_Intervention time._


	37. Bus Kids + Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coffee Shop AU focused on the platonic dynamics but with a sprinkle of budding FitzSimmons fluff.
> 
> Rshps: Simmons & Hunter, Simmons & Daisy, Fitz & Daisy, FitzSimmons, Daisy & Hunter

“Order up!” 

Hunter hit the bell, and a few seconds later, Jemma came to collect the plate. As she took it out to its table, she noticed a young woman standing in the doorway, looking lost. Her hair was short and dark and in disarray, as if she’d just ran here. A computer bag hung off her shoulder and she clenched its handle, apparently startled by Jemma’s attention. 

“Good afternoon, I’m Jemma,” she greeted in her Waitress Voice. “How can I help you?” 

“I, um. I’m looking for ah, Fitz? He said he’d be in here but I don’t know…I’ve never met him before. You don’t happen to know him, do you?” 

“Oh, Fitz, of course!” Jemma beamed. “He’s one of our regulars. He usually sits in that booth there, but he runs late as often as early. Have a seat if you like. Can I get you something?” 

Daisy stuck her hand into the shallow pocket at the front of her jeans. It was, as per usual, disturbingly empty. She was hoping this collaboration would change that but as the saying went, she supposed, one had to spend money to make money. 

“Americano, please,” she said. If Jemma noticed the fact that she’d consciously chosen the cheapest thing she could think of, she didn’t show it. Instead, Jemma simply directed her to the booth and headed back behind the counter to make her coffee. 

Hunter peered between the slot between front-counter and the kitchen. 

“That one,” he murmured, nodding in Daisy’s direction. “Who’s she?” 

“Fitz’s friend, apparently,” Jemma explained. “Why? Do you know her?” 

“No, I don’t think so. Something familiar about her though, don’t you think?” 

Jemma looked over at the girl again. She was looking around the diner, kicking her heels and tapping her fingers on her laptop case, and looking generally uncomfortable. But familiar? Jemma wasn’t so sure. 

“What did she order?” Hunter asked.

“Just Americano. Which is ready, so-“ 

“Pie.” 

“What?” 

Hunter gestured at the pies sitting under their glass covers on the bench beside the checkout. 

“Pie!” he insisted. “Get the girl some pie! Actually no, on second thoughts, wait til Fitz comes in. Actually –“ 

Jemma rolled her eyes and let Hunter continue planning as she brought the coffee over to the girl. They exchanged pleasantries but just before Jemma left, she decided to try and reach out. 

“Would you like some pie?” she asked. “On the house. The owner, he’s a friend of Fitz’s and well, any friend of Fitz’s is a friend of ours.” 

Daisy laughed, but her eyes flitted to the counter, and then to the door. Was Fitz going to leave her cooking in anxiety and poverty all day? 

“I’m serious, it’s no trouble,” Jemma clarified. “Fitz has literally kept this place afloat, I swear, I don’t know how he manages to eat so much. Sorry, I know I’m babbling, but I just wanted to assure you that we’re trying to be nice and if you say no I swear I’ll stop asking and I’ll tell Hunter to lay off but we just –“ 

“Alright, I got it.” Daisy waved a hand. “You’re weirdly hospitable small town weirdoes and I’m a stray kitten you want to take under your wing, right?”

Jemma blushed. 

“A stray kitten with credentials?” she offered hopefully. 

Right on cue, the embodiment of Daisy’s ‘credentials’ stepped over the threshold. The tiny bell above the door tinkled and Jemma smiled a farewell to Daisy. 

“Oh, there he is!” 

The smile didn’t leave her face, and in fact was accompanied by a little blush as she turned to greet Fitz. Fitz’s expression also changed, from one of being comfortably lost in thought in a familiar place, to a sort of smiling, blushing, _thing._ He struggled to get control of it and make it into some sort of decisive expression. Especially in front of his potential new business partner. But also in front of – 

“Hi, Fitz,” Jemma said. “Your table’s already for you. Can I get you something?” 

“Uhm. Hi. Sure. Usual?” 

The breeze outside had been brisk and his walk fairly leisurely, but his palms felt sweaty and his mouth parched all of a sudden. Jemma tucked a sliver of hair behind her ears with a mumbled agreement-slash-farewell, and headed back to the counter to prepare his order. Fitz stared after her for a few seconds. One of these days, he was going to say it. But not today. Today he had a meeting. 

He puffed up his chest a little – not too much, but he did have a ways to compensate after that pathetic little show – and sat opposite the girl who was waiting in his booth. She was smiling at him, grinning with an impish sort of humour. She held her hand out to him. 

“Daisy Johnson,” she introduced. 

“Fitz. Just Fitz.” He shook her hand, and winced. Did it feel as sweaty to her as it did to him? She didn’t seem to notice, but it was starting to feel like he was sweating all over instead. She just waited, smiling amiably if a little uncertainly, until he gestured to her computer.

“Well how about you get set up,” he suggested. “And I’ll just duck to the loo. Won’t be a minute.” 

“Sure.” 

As she pulled her computer out and turned it on, and Fitz bolted toward the galley, a man with a short beard and an apron who could only be the owner – Jemma had called him Hunter – approached with a plate of pie. 

“Apple & rhubarb okay?” he checked. Daisy tapped a bare piece of table. 

“Hit me. Thanks, by the way.” 

“Not a problem. Any friend of Fitz’s is a friend of ours.” Hunter smiled down at her as he flipped the fork between his fingers and offered her the handle. She took it and found a surprising amount of gratitude flooded her at the feeling of her first bite. 

“Wow, that’s really good,” she said, and forced herself to swallow the whole mouthful in one gulp so Hunter couldn’t leave before she asked – “Speaking of friends, that whole song and dance I just saw…” 

Hunter sighed, leaning on his elbow on the back of Daisy’s chair and looking back at the counter, where Jemma was taking a slightly ridiculous amount of time arranging eggs and bacon and tea on a tray. 

“That’s been going on a year, year and a half now. They’re totally gaga for each other but they’re also both chickens. It’s a thin line but they walk it well.” 

So well, in fact, that it was just as Fitz was returning from the bathroom that Jemma finally appeared to be satisfied with her breakfast food arrangement. She’d added two sausages and a fried tomato, and brought it all over looking more like a bed-and-breakfast room service tray than diner food. Hunter backed away from the table as if to look busy, but as Jemma and Fitz both fussed over the tray and each other, he met Daisy’s eye and raised his hands in a shrugging motion, as if to say _told you so_ or _whatcha gonna do?_

Daisy laughed quietly to herself and scooped another bite of pie. For now, at least, she planned to just sit back and enjoy the show.


	38. Fitz & Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fitz helps Skye train with her powers when she first gets them. The name Skye is used because of the time-setting, which I've put around late S2 sometime after she'd come back from Li Shi.

Skye waited beside Fitz’s desk for a few minutes. Quite a few minutes. He worked on a prototype, quiet and steadfast and utterly focused, like he’d tuned everyone out and failed to notice that they’d all long since left for dinner by now. 

Eventually, she cleared her throat and knocked on the end of his desk like it was a door. He jumped, his eyes snapping toward her before he recognised her and the tension dropped again. 

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I could…concentrate.”

“I feel you,” Skye agreed. “Actually it’s…sort of what I wanted to talk to you about. I was wondering if – maybe – you might – help me with my powers?” 

Fitz frowned. 

“Help you? How? I mean, sure, but how?” 

Skye shrugged. 

“I don’t know. It’s just, it sort of feels like there’s…electricity everywhere, you know. I mean, not literally electricity, more like…sound. And it’s around me all the time. I feel like I’m living in a colony of bees.” 

Fitz smiled, recognising the feeling, though not in quite as literally a way as she experienced it. 

“When I was at Li Shi - Afterlife – with Lincoln and my mum, it wasn’t so bad. I like, trained it I guess. We did stuff like, music and glasses and all that, you know, stuff that requires vibrations. I caused an avalanche once! I mean, on purpose. I miss having control of it like that, I guess is what I’m saying.” 

Fitz narrowed his eyes. “You think I can help you make earthquakes?”  
  
“Well, no, that’s all me, but like…you’re my sidekick science crew, party of one. You must have some cool zany science tricks to teach me, right?”

“I think I can think of a few,” Fitz said, his expression a little preening. “In fact, if the Court is free, we can try one right now.” 

“Really?” Skye leapt at the chance, and Fitz enthusiastically led her to a room between the gym and the shooting range, which had what appeared to be squash courts drawn on the floor and what appeared at first glance to be an automated ball feeder, except for the lack of balls. 

“What’s that?” Skye asked, torn between keeping her eyes on Fitz and on the enticingly new machine. 

“Oh of course, you wouldn’t have used one of these before. Silly. It’s a, um. Pigeon shooter. For the –“ he clicked his fingers. “Pigeons. Clay pigeons. You know.” 

Skye’s eyes widened. It had been a long-time, probably superhero-related fantasy of hers to use one of those. 

“Now obviously it’d be better to do this outside,” Fitz explained, his voice becoming louder as he struggled to hear himself through his hearing protection from the shooting range next door. “But since we can’t right now, this’ll have to do. See if you can focus enough to break the pigeons without bringing the roof down on us.” 

“Loving the confidence here.” 

“Hey, I’m still in the room, aren’t I?” 

Fitz a pair of safety goggles and gave her the thumbs-up. She steadied herself in a loose braced position. Was this going to be anything like firing a gun? Or more like exploding those glasses? Or would it be different altogether? 

The first clay fired, and Fitz yelped as Skye sent a blast ricocheting around the room. Fortunately, it settled before it could do too much damage. 

“Sorry!” she squeaked. But the fallen clay gave her an idea. She walked over and picked it up, studying its resonance on the way back to her standing position. If she could somehow attune herself to it, like she had to the rock, maybe she could concentrate her powers. 

“Ready?” Fitz called. They counted down in unison, and the second one fired. 

Instinctively, like drawing a weapon in an Old Western duel, Skye flicked her hand up and pointed her fingers at the clay. The sound of it, the density, the resonance flickered through her and out her fingers, sailed through the air and shattered it. A tiny explosion later, clay-sand rained down on the Court. 

Fitz let out a loud, wordless cheer behind her, and Skye felt her spirits immediately lift.

“Okay, go again!”


	39. Fitz & May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Platonic coffee shop AU. Fitz & May.  
> Based a the bullet fic by agentcalliope, which she requested I write out in full.

“Hey!” 

Fitz smiles at the customer in front of him, trying to ignore the aggressive voice from around the corner. 

“Hey!” the voice demands again. Spoons clink where the customer hits the bench. Fitz tries not to sigh and smiles apologetically at the new customer. She waves her hand, brushing him off to deal with the aggressive customer, and he fixes his best customer service smile and faces up to him.

“Can I help you, sir?” 

“This is not what I ordered. Skim milk? I ordered cream, see, I paid for cream. Right there.” 

He jabs the receipt in Fitz’s face. 

“I’m sorry about that sir, I must have made a mistake-“ 

“Bloody right. Look, I don’t have time for this.” 

“I really am sorry,” Fitz insists. “Look, I could just remake it if you’ll wait one more –“ 

“Well I’ve already bloody waited, haven’t I?” 

“It’s the best I can do, sir.” 

The customer rolls his eyes, hands on his hips. He’s half an inch away from stamping his foot like a petulant child instead of the heavy-built, bearded, 40-ish-year-old man he is. Fitz might have laughed if he wasn’t so terrified of sloshing hot milk on himself as he struggles to remake the drink as quickly as possible, and now with shaking hands. It feels like the customer’s about to reach his hands over and throttle Fitz, and while that seems unlikely, he’s been working in this job long enough to know not to put anything past an angry customer. Instead, the man sighs again and checks the time on his phone. 

“Nah,” he says, like it’s a curse word. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Bloody useless. I’ve got a real job to get to. But I’ll be having a word with your manager, boy. Not good enough. It’s not good enough, aye?” 

He looks around at the other customers for validation. Some of them murmur – in agreement, in dissent – and some stay silent, confused or put out. None of them suggest that the drink could have been made in the time he’d spent yelling, or point out the fact that Fitz is pouring it out at this moment, and by the time the customer reaches the door, his drink is waiting. 

The coffee with skim milk is still waiting too. He goes to move it, to throw it out, or something, because this doesn’t happen much, and then realises that the other customer is still waiting. He leaves the coffee and lunges for the counter, determined to make it up.

“I – um – sorry about that,” he apologises. The customer who had been waiting politely – an older Asian woman, Chinese he guessed – flashes him a small, but not a pinched smile, as if all her smiles are like that. 

“No need for _you_ to be sorry,” she says, and her eyes fall to the coffee he has waiting. “Tall with skim? Hm. That’s exactly what I wanted.” 

Though her smile is small her eyes sparkle with it, as if she knows what a blessing she’s just bestowed on his still-thundering heart. 

“Are you sure?” he checks. “I can make you a fresh one.” 

She shrugs. Again, the movement is slight, but meaningful. 

“Save a rainforest,” she insists. “I don’t mind.” 

Fitz pushes the coffee toward her and she passes him the correct change. He drops it into the register as gratefully as if she’d told him to put it into his own pocket. 

- 

The next morning, Tall-With-Skim is back. Fitz finds out that she is indeed Chinese, and that she’s here to do some reading. Reading of what, he’s not sure, but she doesn’t seem a talkative person so – at first, at least – he doesn’t ask. She doesn’t smile much either, like she did on that first day, but she’s not hostile. She’s perfectly polite, perfectly patient, even when he’s had a bad day or it’s busy or his anxiety or his aphasia are giving him trouble. She comes in every morning after that, and slowly he learns about her. She reads old novels – some of them recognisable, like _The Catcher in the Rye,_ and some of them Chinese, and he probably wouldn’t recognise them even if their titles were written in English, which of course they aren’t. When he asks after them she only says “poetry,” “a play,” an adventure.” She goes through a lot of them, but she doesn’t speak much. And one day, he notices, she doesn’t drink much either. 

Nothing at all, in fact. 

For three days, he clears untouched coffee from the table that’s become her favourite – up the front, but in the corner, where she has privacy, but he imagines, she could leap to his aid should any more unforgiving customers attack. On the fourth morning he decides, this silent woman is clearly going to some sort of lengths not to change her order. Likely, not to upset him. It’s not like he asks what she wants anymore anyway, since tall with skim has been it – or so he thought – for so long. 

This morning, when she comes in, he taps the board behind his head. Rather than proceeding to her seat, trusting in him to make the usual, she approaches the counter. 

“You know,” he says. “Um. We don’t just serve coffee. We have tea too? Earl Grey. Iced. Green. Chai? I mean, if – if you like.” 

Her face is not hostile, but it is unwavering, and he starts to wonder if maybe he’s misjudged her. Maybe there’s a reason she doesn’t drink the coffee but buys it anyway. Maybe her presence here is some sort of therapy technique. Maybe she thinks he’s judging her English skills, or- or – smiling at him? 

“Green, please,” she says. “Pot for one.” 

Nodding profusely, he starts to make it as she lays the money out on the counter. Waiting for the water to boil, Fitz returns to the counter, relief and pride making him a little giddy with the success of the encounter, and he grins. 

“Leo, hm?” she wonders, glancing at his name badge.

“That’s what they made me put,” he explains. “I prefer Fitz.” 

There it is. That little smile.

“Melinda,” she says, “but I prefer May.”


	40. Daisy & Elena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Daisy comforts Elena about Mack being replaced, + Elena is pregnant when she finds out.  
> 4x15 insert/UA. Daisy & Elena, some Jemma & Elena, background Mackelena.

Elena paces. The land and the air are hot and dry and she doesn’t mind that so much; it’s more that she received the call hours ago and she’s usually one of the first to get picked up. At first, she’s mostly annoyed at being left hanging after what had been quite an urgent, concerned call to arms. She might have to uproot her whole life? Again? They were all moving for some reason? Why? And why is it taking _so long?_

Hours pass and she wishes there was a lemonade stand or something that she might have been able to take advantage of, but in a space big enough and far enough from civilisation to land the Zephyr, there is nothing. She has a bottle of water, fortunately, but she isn’t prepared for so many hours of waiting. Her irritation swells and fades and is replaced by worry. What if their urgent circumstances have escalated? What if they’ve had to respond to an attack somewhere? Or what if they themselves are in danger? 

Elena sits on a post and puts her hand on her belly, with half a mind to turn around and head for home. If they really want her, they can find her. But the more she thinks about it, the more she feels that something must be wrong. Mack hadn’t been very forward with her on the call, and that isn’t unusual, but it doesn’t give her much to work with. Fortunately, that also means there isn’t much for her to spin into an anxious knot, which she’s more prone to doing these days than usual. Still, by the time the Zephyr finally lands – startlingly unsteady, is May injured? – she’s champing at the bit. 

She runs up the ramp, eager to find a familiar face. The ship is almost deserted, and those that remain are mostly in and around the cockpit, taking off in an uncomfortably communal fashion. Elena scrunches up her nose and turns to the people she does recognise: Daisy and Jemma. 

“Where is everybody?” 

They look exhausted, and both of them are smeared with sweat and grime and blood. Elena’s heart begins to race as the desperation of the flying; the absence of Mack, of May, of any other Inhumans; the bruised and battered women in front of her all pile up to confirm her fears. 

“Dios mio,” she murmurs, blinking to keep any potential tears and their accompanying emotions in check. “What happened?” 

Daisy and Jemma share an uncertain glance, neither of them wanting to break the news. Elena’s eyes move between them but after a moment they seem to decide that Daisy should be the one to do it. She reaches a hand forward and Elena catches it, somehow entranced by the impending horror she’s undoubtedly about to face. 

“They’ve been replaced,” Daisy says. “Aida and Radcliffe, that whole mad science thing, it’s out of control. They took over, tried to kill us, _I, Robot_ style. We only just got out.” 

“Literally,” Jemma adds. “The door blew up behind us.” She shudders after she says it, and draws her arms tighter around herself. Elena frowns. 

“Replaced?” Her heart is still in her throat. “They – who?” 

“May, Coulson, Fitz,” Daisy says. “Mack.” 

Daisy lowers her eyes a little. Elena waits for it to sink in, checks that she is understanding, feels the slow and venomous bite of cold reality. 

“Are they okay?” she asks, and again she feels the tears prickling at her eyes, but she ignores them. “Where are they? We have to get them.” 

“We will,” Daisy assures her, then tips her head to the side a little. “We’re going to get them, right now,” she insists. “Vasquez is setting up a med bay, we’re getting patched up, and then we’re off. I promise, we’re bringing them back.” 

Elena finds a lump in her throat and she can only nod in reply, or else a tangled mass of Spanish, English, and hysterical nonsense is going to come out. Her advantageous lack of morning sickness – so far, she reminds herself – must be balancing itself in other ways because all of a sudden she can’t seem to think clearly. She half sits, half falls into another chair and struggles to compose herself, and Daisy and Jemma watch on, confused by the uncharacteristic display. 

“I’m sorry,” Elena apologises, once she’s wrestled her consciousness back under control. She brushes them off, but though she can’t recall the English translation, they seem to get it from a tight shrug and a murmur of; “Hormonas del embarazo.” 

“Hormones?” Jemma speculates, leaning forward. “Sorry, Elena, are you-“ 

Elena sighs. 

“It’s Mack’s,” she says. “Of course. I was going to tell him first, but since all this, I can’t…”

“You can,” Daisy vows. “You can and you will. I mean, not first. That ship has sailed, obviously. But this is a good thing! And you will see him again, and you’re going to be his favourite person on the planet.” 

In spite of it all, Elena smiles. 

“Actually, I think soon I am going to lose that title,” she says, “but I can live with that.” 

“That’s the spirit!” Daisy cheers.

Then their attention is drawn by a knock on the wall of the cockpit. They turn to see Vasquez, who announces that she has prepared the medical set-up. 

“And the Framework?” Daisy checks. Vasquez looks between the three of them uncertainly. 

“Yeah…but there’s only two.” 

“That’s okay, she’s staying,” Daisy says. Elena frowns. 

“You’re going somewhere?” she wonders, confused. 

“We believe the- hostages,” Jemma falters over the word, “are being held with their minds plugged into this virtual reality simulation. We can’t locate them at the moment, because it’s too complex, but we hope that if we enter the Framework and find their avatars –“ 

“Their bodies, if you like,” Daisy explains, “inside the program.” 

“- then we will be able to wake them up or find them in the real world, or both.” Jemma smiles, and Elena gets the feeling it’s supposed to be encouraging, though the tears and reddened eyes lessen the effect somewhat. Of course, Fitz has been taken too – his replacement might have even tried to kill Jemma himself. Elena can hardly imagine it. What did she have to do to get away? 

As encouragingly as she can, Elena smiles back. 

“What you can do, actually,” Daisy says, “is make sure we stay in there. I’ve hacked in, so it’s probably going to try and spit us back out. Also, our bodies could be shutting down. If we don’t get out in time, we could die, but we want to stay in there as long as physically possible. Jemma’s written down the numbers and times. If it stays over them, pull us out, otherwise _anything else_ is happening. If our vitals go nuts or something, just leave it, someone’s probably trying to kill us in-game and we’re going to need that element of panic.” 

She laughs, only slightly strained by the thought of her impending death, and leaves Elena to absorb the information as she struggles out of her chair and follows Vasquez down the hall. Jemma follows, and then Elena behind them, feeling strangely comforted even as she watches their last hopes limping and grimacing down to the beds that have been set up for them. They wait through their cleaning and medical attendance with stoic, steely patience, like warriors, and maybe that’s why Elena feels protected. Not to mention, the love of Jemma’s life and Daisy’s teammates – her surrogate family – are at stake for them too. Elena can’t imagine better people to fight for them, and though she agrees she shouldn’t go – for the good of the child if nothing else – then she can at least trust herself to them. 

Elena helps them prepare the Framework set-up, all the needles and dials and electrodes that Daisy and Jemma explain in tandem. They reiterate the need for them to be left to suffer until critical point is reached – an uncomfortable number of times, if Elena is being honest – and Jemma promises on their behalf to bring the boys back. The chairs are lowered, and a tense silence falls over the room. Elena walks around them one more time, checking everything, and Daisy catches her sleeve with a slight movement of her hand.

“Hey,” she says, “pray for us, okay?” 

For a moment, Elena sees a flicker of fear pass through her, and then it’s gone as if saying the words expelled it somehow. As if she’s ready for whatever she might have to face. Does she even know what’s in there? 

Either way, Elena nods, and then the simulation drags them under.  


	41. Daisy & Bobbi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bobbi, Jemma and Lincoln help Daisy escape an abusive home.  
> Daisy & Bobbi, Daisy & Jemma, StaticQuake.
> 
> TW: homophobia, domestic violence reference.

“WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?”

A sharp, booming voice and a heavy thud, like a book being slapped onto a desk, snaps Daisy and Jemma awake at the same time. They go flying – a flurry of limbs, hair, blankets, food – as they scramble to their feet. 

“Oh, dear,” Jemma murmurs, looking ashamedly down at the mess they’ve just made, but Daisy’s defensive eyes are on her father. She stares him down, and he stares back. 

“We were watching a movie,” she insists. “We fell asleep.” 

“Watching a ‘movie’?” He snorts. “What movie?” 

She could have named any, but she can’t remember what they had ended up on and she takes too long to think of it, of something, and her time is up. 

“I’ve heard that one before, missy.” He shakes his head. “You convent girls are all the same. That place does something to you, I swear. Perverted, it is.” 

Daisy clenches her fist. She doesn’t know where to start, and she knows she shouldn’t anyway, but fury and fear prickle behind her eyes. Jemma, meanwhile, has just cottoned on to what Daisy’s adoptive father is implying and the words tumble out in a flurry –

“Sir, Mr Roberts, it’s not anything un- untoward, honest, we were watching Steel Magnolias, it’s a classic…” she trails off, her voice too weak to continue as it becomes obvious that Mr Roberts has already crossed a line into a realm of fury where logic does not exist. 

“I have a _boyfriend!”_ Daisy insists, already herding Jemma towards the door. “Lincoln? Remember? You had drinks with him? Pointed a shotgun at his balls at some point probably?” 

She shoves Jemma out the door, all the while trying to abate Mr Roberts’ temper, but the disadvantage of being raised by friends of this particular church is that they’re just as God-fearing, if not moreso, than the nuns, and the scent of sin is like blood to sharks. Even Jemma, as she hides her face and runs away from the front door, can feel them swarming. 

-

“…needs to get out of there,” Jemma says.

“Totally. Assholes. Did you call the police?” Bobbi picks at her food, her appetite dulled by concern for her friend. 

“I thought about it,” Jemma replies, still doubting her decision, “but I thought that might just get her in more trouble. Maybe Child Services?” 

“Maybe.” Bobbi frowns. “Not like they’re doing her any good right now. She’s technically still a ward of the state, right? Shouldn’t they be doing audits or something?” 

Jemma shrugs. “Maybe they’re overwhelmed.” 

Lincoln shakes his head. 

“They’re a private organisation. The rules aren’t quite the same. They’re supposed to audit themselves, I think, so unless we mounted an investigation into St Agnes itself…” 

He trails off, his mouth going dry as he catches sight of Daisy lugging her bag in through the door. She does well not to let her body show it, but she can’t help but cringe a little, and make-up only does so much for a black eye.

It’s only homeroom, so he stands, but even if it hadn’t been he would have swept her up. A twinge of protective rage pulls at his heart but he knows if she wanted to to fight it she’d fight it herself. As it is, she just looks exhausted. He runs his hands, feather-light, down her arms and she cringes, so he takes her bag instead and trails her to where the girls are sitting. 

“I know what you’re going to say,” Daisy says. “And I’ve thought about it, but I can’t. I don’t – I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t have a job, and even if I did I probably couldn’t live on it. I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to emancipate myself on it. It’s no use.” 

Their bristling protectiveness almost makes her smile. Usually, it would make her feel better, but today she feels sick. It had never reached this point before and she isn’t sure what to do anymore. She’d always pressed buttons – of parents, teachers, nuns – but she’d found the line somewhere back and she isn’t sure she can uncross it. She isn’t sure that the next plate she drops or delivery she misses won’t result in fists again. Everything is unstable.

“You know,” Jemma offers. “If you tell a teacher, they’ll report it. They have to do something, it’s the law.” 

“Yeah, and then what? Mr Roberts gets a call from the police? They’ll give him another chance, and if he takes it, it’ll be worse.” Her voice hitches, and all three of them move to hold her. Lincoln beats them to her hand, but Bobbi still rests a hand – cool and gentle, barely even disturbing the bruises – on her arm. 

“We’re going to get you out,” she vows. “Emancipation, rent, all that we can sort out later. You need to be with people who care about you and want you safe.” 

“I appreciate the thought, but none of you can do that. We’re all broke-ass students, if you didn’t notice, and we all live with some kind of parent. I can’t exactly move in with any of you.” 

The bell rings for class then, drowning out the cacophony of half-baked potential solutions Jemma, Bobbi and Lincoln come up with. Daisy snatches her bag back and strides in the opposite direction, since she doesn’t have any of them with her this period. Self-preservation stems the pain of feeling her walls rise up and she holds her chin high, as if ignoring the black eye will make it go away. She’ll figure it out. She’s got this far on her own, right? 

But as she pulls out her notebooks for next class, she contemplates telling Mr Spencer that it wasn’t a soccer injury after all.

-

By the end of the day, Daisy is dreading being late as much as she is going home. The others find her as quickly as possible. Jemma has a notebook full of potential solutions, Lincoln vibrates with frenetic energy as if he’s going to snap something every time he sees her injury, and Bobbi’s probably ripped the engine out of her car. She loves them, but they’re going to get in so much trouble. They’re going to get her in trouble. There’s no way this ends well. 

“Uh-uh,” Bobbi says, putting a hand on the car door Daisy’s trying to open. “You’re not taking this thing anywhere. You’re coming with me, and Lincoln’s driving this piece of crap after us.” 

“What?”

“It’s a sleepover!” Jemma insists, and points to the first item on her list. It is not in fact, a notebook full of potential solutions, but rather a something-point-plan, apparently. “A permanent sleepover.” 

“You already spend plenty of time at our places anyway,” Lincoln explains. “And I know your parents don’t like you staying overnight with me but – well, the ship of things they don’t like has sort of sailed.”

“Guys, I really don’t think –“ Daisy shakes her head, but Bobbi stops her. 

“Let us help you, you donut,” she says. “You want out. We want you to get out. The safest way for you to get out is to not be home while the police and Child Services and whoever is dealing with the shit. Problem solved, right?”

Daisy looks around at all three determined, protective faces. There’s a glowing treasure in her heart, a precious stone, at the sight of them all. She sighs. She feels a weight, if not lift, then slide a little like snow awaiting an avalanche of relief. 

“Okay, but I have to go home f-“ 

Bobbi lifts her off her feet, into a bridal-style carry, and Daisy shrieks. Her legs flail without real effort as she teases at Bobbi’s height – she’d fall from this distance, rather than step down.

“You’re never setting foot in there again. Lincoln’s getting everything. Jemma’s driving. First shift is my house. We’re staging an intervention, Weasley-style.” 

Daisy wraps her arms around Bobbi’s shoulders and neck, sitting up in the hold. 

“I still think this isn’t going to work,” she says, “but I’ve never had this many people trying this hard for me before, so thanks.” 

She shrieks again as Bobbi lowers her to the ground and opens her own car door, where Jemma is by this point waiting.

“We’ve got you, Daisy,” Bobbi assures her as she slips into the empty seat. “We’re not going anywhere anytime soon.” 

Daisy smiles weakly. She’s not sure she can believe it, but if they can get her out, protect her, free her, that will be enough. If they do indeed love her, like they say, that will be more than she can imagine.


	42. May & the Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S2A/B insert - missing scene(s) involving how the team got Daisy out of the rubble.  
> Includes the whole team, but especially May & the Bus Kids. Many Trip references. Sad/angst.

Eventually, the roar in their ears ceased. The bone-shattering vibrations running through their bodies abated. The dust began to settle.

Jemma uncurled from Fitz’s arms a little. 

“What was that?” her voice was quiet, strained with fear, but he was hardly doing better; he looked back at her with wide eyes, bewildered, and they turned their attention to the manhole at their feet with sinking hearts. 

“Trip?” Jemma called, then leaned further in and tried again. “ _TRIP?”_

Her voice echoed down into the cavern, but of course, nothing came back. 

“Wait. Wait a few seconds,” Fitz assured her, though his heart was hammering in his throat. It didn’t take this long for sound to reach that far down and surely – surely Trip would have had to have been on his way back to them…if he’d made it. Perhaps he was trapped somewhere in there? But their end of the tunnel didn’t look collapsed. How much was damaged? Who’d been down there? Mack?  
  
More seconds passed, too many, and the heaviness of it settled over them. There was no reply, no tug on the ropes. No signs of life. 

Jemma paced. 

“We should…we should call Coulson and-“ 

Footsteps made them jump, and they turned to May’s surprisingly emotive face. Shock. Fear. 

“Good,” May said. “You two are still here. At least somebody’s got their head screwed on.”  
  
“What are you talking about?” Jemma glanced from May to Fitz, who was just as confused as she was. May pursed her lips. 

“Coulson went down there. After Skye.” 

“Skye’s down there – “ it spills from Fitz’s lips belatedly. “Trip went in after her. To try and stop the – the – “ 

“The explosions, from the C4,” Jemma finished. “Oh, gosh, this is – I mean, we haven’t heard anything from him. D’you think-?” 

Fretting, she struggled to get control of her tongue. May was busy calculating in her head. 

“Bobbi and Hunter are upstairs. They’ll sort themselves out. You, you, and me are the only ones on this level. Daisy, Coulson, Mack and Trip are below, unless they got out another way.” 

Fitz shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t like those odds.” 

May fixed him with a stern glare. 

“They’re smart. If there’s anything they could have done to keep themselves safe, they would have done it. It’s not over ‘til it’s over. Now, is there any way to tell which parts of the tunnels are damaged without going down there ourselves?” 

Jemma and Fitz glanced at each other and shook their heads. Their instruments hadn’t worked the first time around; it was glowsticks and manual explosives all the way. And now a dangerous manned search-and-rescue, and potentially recovery mission. 

“Well, how do we get all three of us down there?” Jemma asked, looking between the other two. “I mean we can hardly expect one of us to stay up here. Not now. All for one, right?”

May looked uncertainly down at the hole by their feet. She’d already potentially lost half her team; to lose the others was too much to think about. Then again, she could hardly navigate all those tunnels by herself, let alone pull the others out, especially if they were injured. And FitzSImmons had just potentially lost half their team, too – they’d be feeling the same as she was on that one, she imagined. 

“I’ll call Bobbi and Hunter,” May decided, and the three of them prepared themselves to go underground. 

- 

It was a nervewracking process and tensions were high, but eventually all three of them set foot on the surprisingly stable floor of the tunnel. Bobbi and Hunter shouted down a few last-minute reassurances, and then they were on their own – except for the sudden appearance of a bright green glowstick.

May turned the nose of her pistol towards it, only to realise that it was Mack and Coulson, holding each other up as they limped toward the light. 

“Thank God,” Coulson muttered, his face smudged with grime, blood and sweat shining in patches in the dull light. “This place is a labyrinth. Feels like we’ve been down here for days. Can we get up there? Mack’s had a long day.”

Too exhausted and overwhelmed to speak, Mack smiled weakly at Fitz. Fitz smiled back, grateful for small mercies in this mess. He gestured to the harness in which he, Jemma and May had lowered themselves. 

“Bobbi and Hunter are up there. Give them a shout.” 

“Thanks, Turbo,” Mack murmured. Coulson nodded in appreciation, but before he could start helping Mack put the harness on, May called him back. 

“Have you seen Skye at all? Or Trip?” 

The hope drained from Coulson’s expression. 

“No,” he confessed gauntly. “Not since – I mean, Skye was in this chamber –“  
  
“The Temple,” Jemma filled in. 

“Must have been,” Coulson agreed. “The walls closed before I could get in. I think – I think that’s where it was coming from. The quake.” 

May glanced back at Fitz and Jemma, and saw her own fears reflected in their somewhat more emotive expressions. Skye – and Trip, if he’d managed to find her – probably couldn’t have survived the epicentre. It was looking more and more like a recovery mission after all.

“Get Mack out,” May instructed. “We’ll find the other two. Where’s the Temple?” 

Coulson gestured, and May headed off in that direction with her head held high. As hard as it was, she’d only come this far by taking her own advice. It’s not over until it’s over. Hard as it was, she would demand proof – bodies – _something –_ before she would surrender to her doubts. 

-

It was over for one of them that day, though. 

Optimism only gets so far. 

A search, a dig through rubble that left three sets of hands raw and bleeding, got a little further. Stray hair, a hand, a face, were slowly revealed and they found Skye, somehow shielded by the way the large panels of stone had fallen around her, creating a safe-haven amongst the catastrophe. She was disoriented, shaking, breathing hard; shock was in control of her mental faculties. Fitz and May coaxed her out and swaddled her up as best they could, and meanwhile Jemma dug and dug and dug until every breath stung. Trip was down here, in her corner, on her watch. Trip was down here, and nowhere to be found. 

And then she found him. 

Part of him.

A hand. It crumbled when she touched it. 

A piece of a shoe, but made of stone. 

“Don’t touch it,” Skye insisted, her teeth chattering as her body refused to settle. “Don’t – it’ll kill you. It killed him – It killed him –“

Jemma looked around at the silvery splinters. Dust of an Obelisk? 

_It killed him._

She stood up and backed out of the rubble-free circle she had dug herself. Waving at Fitz and May to get moving, Jemma kept her eye on the remaining heaps of stone. Something was wrong. Something was in there. Trip? Or the ghost of him?

“We have to get out of here,” she insisted. “Right now. We shouldn’t have come in here without suits on. We could have breathed it in, we could have…” 

She trailed off, struggling to gain control of herself, and started again.

“We’ll have to quarantine ourselves when we get back. Especially Skye. But for now we need to get out of here.” 

Nothing more needed to be said. Nothing more could be done – not for now, at least. A proper recovery team would be needed for this. Until then, they had to save themselves. 

Still, with Skye sedated on a stretcher and the rest of them nursing their own wounds, both physical and emotional, the flight back to base was quiet as the proverbial grave.


	43. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow up/sequel to Ch.36 (HS AU) in which the Bus Kids pass notes and find out that Fitz's absent father has returned out of the blue and can get into his house whenever he wants to. Gross! This chap, the girls accompany Fitz back to his house to soothe some of his worries. Mild angst with a happy/fluffy ending.

best read after [Chapter 36](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7295626/chapters/22170287).

-

“Mum?” 

The jangle of his keys was the only sound in reply as Fitz pushed through the door and into the foyer. He scouted ahead of Jemma and Daisy who followed him in, and lingered in place while he stuck his head into the laundry and down the hall, calling as he went. His mother was probably at work – which was probably a good thing, because she’d be disappointed to find him skipping out of school in the middle of the day, especially for her sake. Still, it made him feel better to be here – to know that nothing was out of place, somehow, even though he had no concrete way of actually measuring that.

The Fitz house was a perpetual mess. The kitchen was half-decent, but beyond that, shuffling papers and abandoned cardigans and aprons and half-baked ideas to clear space had become a way of life. He didn’t mind it, being surrounded by the tumble of his life, but he could have done without the reminders, here and there, of his father’s lingering presence. A coffee cup. A magazine. One of Fitz’s own inventions, knocked off the dining table and not replaced. He collected it and deposited it back onto the table for fixing later, and retreated to the kitchen. 

He screwed up his nose. It was still not right in here. It still felt like _him._

“Fitz?” Jemma leaned her head in to check on him, and Fitz beckoned them further in. 

“Come on,” he said. “’s probably the cleanest room in the house, anyway. Want a drink?” 

He set about making them each a hot chocolate, and ran a sponge over the bench and the stove while waiting for the water to boil. It settled him somewhat, feeling like he could wipe away his father’s touch, but after so many years of just him and his Mum, the sudden sense of violation was taking a while to clear. As his mother had said, though, there was nothing else to do but cover the bad memories with good ones; drown them out. He wasn’t sure about the _nothing else_ part, but still, looking around at Daisy and Jemma – especially Jemma, who had finally marred this year’s perfect attendance record to be here – he felt reassured. 

“Thanks for coming with me, guys,” he said. “I know it’s nonsense, but…” 

He looked around at the kitchen. It wasn’t nonsense at all, really, it was _his._ And it was scary to know that someone could come and take it all away. 

“Hey, it’s cool,” Daisy assured him. “I get the privacy violation thing. I have to go through so many damn checks and controls. Shitty curfews, clothing checks one time, internet control – not that that works, but they try, so the principle applies. Sometimes my ‘parents’ even get the keys to my room. It’s gross. I’m not _theirs.”_  

She screwed up her nose, mimicking the expression he’d made earlier. He couldn’t be sure if she’d seen him, and was mimicking him on purpose, but he smiled anyway. It was satisfying, to feel understood. 

“Have you thought about calling the police or something?” Jemma wondered. “Surely he can’t just show up like that.” 

Fitz shrugged. 

“The car’s in his name, I’m pretty sure. Plus, I’m a kid, so anything of mine he can control if he wants to, I think. I’m not sure what Mum did back when they split. Maybe she could see a lawyer, I don’t know.”

Lawyers – good lawyers - were notoriously expensive, of course, but Jemma decided to zip her lips, especially since Fitz seemed to be avoiding eye contact with her. He obviously didn’t want to talk about it, and she didn’t want to risk putting her foot in her mouth; sometimes she forgot that not everyone came from a well-off and extremely well-educated family. Perhaps she’d broach the idea of her father having a look at the state of the Fitz family’s affairs, but that was a conversation for another time. For now, she sipped her hot chocolate and wondered if she should offer to help Fitz clean instead. He seemed satisfied by his work, though, and took up his own mug for a drink. 

“Should – should we maybe go back to school?” Jemma suggested. “I suppose there’s no point now. By the time we get back up there, there’ll only be twenty minutes or so left. We might as well make the most of the afternoon.” 

The others were in agreement, so they bundled themselves out of the kitchen in search of what to do. Fitz herded them away from his bedroom. It was a pigsty born of preoccupation, depression and anger that nobody needed to see, to be honest, and instead they flocked to the living room. Cups and papers and blankets were shuffled around as the television awoke, and Jemma and Daisy made themselves comfortable fighting over the remote. 

“YES!” Daisy shouted all of a sudden, holding the remote high in the air and dangling it over Jemma’s head. “Mythbusters. Fitz? Mythbusters?” 

“Yes!!” Fitz clapped and Daisy tossed the remote to him so that he could adjust the settings. 

“What’s Mythbusters?” Jemma wondered. 

“Only the greatest show on Earth,” Fitz muttered. 

“These two guys do science,” Daisy explained. “Like, real science, to figure out if you could like…blow up a car by shooting at its fuel tank, stuff like that.” 

“You can’t-“ 

Daisy held up a finger. “Even if they find out that you can’t, they’ll mess with stuff until you can. Like, they’ll put propane in the tank or something instead.” 

Jemma’s eyes widened. 

“Science, explosions, hilariously Southern accents,” Fitz summarised. “What more does an afternoon need?”


	44. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3x02 insert; a bit more of a Daisy/the Bus Kids angle surrounding the Jemma's rescue.

I have to mention this beautiful art ([the top one on this post x](http://theclaravoyant.tumblr.com/post/131225104171/agents-of-free-and-here-they-are-my-post-3x02#notes)) that inspired the details.

-

“I’m fine, I’m fine.”

Her arms tremble as she bats the others away, struggling to her feet for a brief moment to stagger over to the rig they’ve set up to pull Fitz and Simmons out of the well. As Coulson, Mack and Bobbi ease Jemma off the rig, Fitz staggers, delirious with relief and joy, into Daisy’s arms. They collapse to the floor.

“Thank you,” he chokes, hugging her furiously, tears streaming down his face. _“Thank you.”_  

He pulls back, noticing the blood on her face.

“Are you okay?”

“It’s just a minor flesh wound,” she says, flashing him an exhausted grin.

 _“Skye.”_  

Simmons barely manages one step before she falls in a heap. Fitz all but wraps himself around her, offering something to fall back on as she peers at Daisy’s face through the sharp lighting and tears rapidly filling her eyes.

 _“Skye.”_ She can’t manage anything more. She’s burning on embers. Daisy brushes a lock of hair out of Simmons’ face and holds it there, cradling the side of her head, still not quite believing what had been achieved, who was sitting before her, who she was touching.

“Jemma. It’s so good to see you.”

Simmons nods. Daisy smiles.

“Mack’s bringing the Zephyr round for Jemma. You ready to go?”

Fitz and Daisy stand. Fitz gather Simmons into his arms again – she’s already inches away from sleep – and Daisy doubles over, her hands on her knees, gasping for breath. Though the dust is quite settled by now, it almost feels like she’s breathing sand. Her lungs heave. Her head is still spinning.

“You should go straight to medical,” Bobbi insists. “You might have given yourself a concussion or a haemorrhage.”

 _“God,_ you sound just like Simmons.” Daisy rolls her eyes, but she can’t help laughing a little, because Simmons is back now and jokes like that have a sparkle to them she’d thought she might never feel again. Tears start to fall, stinging her cheeks, and she trusts in Bobbi’s firm hand on her shoulder to guide her as the dim lighting refuses to cooperate with her swimming vision.

-

Once on board, they follow a handful of techs and medics into the belly of the craft, Simmons on a stretcher between them. Once freed from the prodding attentions of the staff, Fitz and Daisy escape; Daisy, to collapse on a nearby but out-of-the-way bench, and Fitz to pace restlessly in front of it. With a seat and a bottle full of electrolyte-infused blue water, Daisy sighs and stretches out.

“What’s the diagnosis?” Coulson asks, his eyes switching between them. “And stop fiddling with that.”

Fitz scowls and drops his hand from the monitor they’ve clipped to his finger. Daisy sighs.

“Fitz is wired, Simmons is basically asleep but she’ll be stuck in there for a while – the techs are sampling everything – and me? Epically drained, but good. So good. I just need to not, y’know, stand up, for a week or so.”

“You do know it damages your brain every time you get a concussion,” Fitz puts in, his tone surprisingly scolding.

“Worth it.” Daisy smirks.

“Skye-“

“Uh! Daisy. And trust me, I mean it. Worth it.”


	45. Skye & May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set early S1.  
> Prompt: Skye injures herself on a mission and refuses medical. May follows & finds out she's ashamed of scars from past abuse.
> 
> Skye (bc S1) & May, some Bus Kids.  
> TW: implied abuse/abuse mention, no depiction/description.

Life at Shield got hot and heavy pretty quickly – and mostly, not in a good way. Skye had not had the most stable of upbringings, but even she was kept on her toes, and occasionally rattled, by the rapid-fire, high-stakes game she’d got herself wrapped up in. 

Soon enough, of course, injuries happen. She’s had a few of those in her time, but the occasional cut, bruise or fracture was something she could handle. This time, she’d slipped and fallen off a ledge and landed hard on her back. Winded, she’d hardly been able to call for help, but once they found her she was moving again – if slowly, inch by inch. 

“Still trying to find that damn banana peel?” she joked, as the others studied the area around her with far too much concentration than was comfortable. She could still feel the pieces of gravel in her skin, and the way her spine had hit flat rock. In one side of her neck, she’d probably pulled a muscle, but she could stand and walk, so she was ready to move. 

“You should go to medical, Skye,” Simmons insisted. “Back injuries are serious business.” 

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Skye insisted, doing a very good job of not wincing as she flexed her shoulders, and it felt like they were about to pull each other away from her ribs. “Bit of gravel. I’m fine, I promise.” 

Simmons was not convinced, of course, and nor was anyone else around her, but they had other things to worry about and no doubt they were used to injuries like this. Satisfied that no trap had been set and that Skye had left nothing behind, they migrated as a guarded group back to the Bus, from which they had come. Walking up the ramp, Skye found, was unreasonably painful, and her back felt like there were swords lancing through it. Maybe she really had injured herself. 

“Are you sure you’re alright, Skye?” Fitz asked, looking her over with concern in his eyes. She flexed her shoulder again and flashed a tight smile. 

“Sure. Just tired,” she promised. “I’m going to go have a shower.” 

And she did, and it was not half bad – for a plane, they had a surprisingly good water system, and her shocked, strained muscles were grateful for the warm release. It was when she came out, though, that she discovered one more person who hadn’t let her go unnoticed. 

May stood, as calm as ever, in one corner of her room. When had she come in? How long had she been waiting? 

“I- I’m naked,” Skye stammered, nodding at the towel she held wrapped around herself. 

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen,” May replied, with – if Skye was not mistaken – a touch of amusement in her voice, “but I can turn around while you put something on, if you like.” 

“Yeah. Please.” Skye blinked wide eyes at May. Shield never failed to surprise her. But May did indeed turn, and after a few seconds to check that it was not some sort of prank, Skye let the towel drop and pulled on her underwear and pants. 

The jerking movements of her arms as she pulled her jeans on made her gasp and yelp out loud, and though May didn’t turn, Skye suddenly remembered the mysterious nature of her presence. Continuing to dress, more carefully now, she asked – 

“What brings you to my...humble abode?” 

Gritting her teeth, she tried to pull a shirt on, and it stung and stung and pulled and stung and she swore in frustration. May peeked a little over her shoulder and Skye sighed in exasperation. 

“Alright. Whatever. I did hurt myself, okay? My back canes. I just want to go to bed. Are you gonna help me with this or stand there looking…” 

 _Pretty_ didn’t seem like what May was going for, but _menacing_ seemed inappropriate under the circumstances. Nevertheless, May took it as an invitation and moved over, slow and steady and calming, to help Skye with her shirt. 

“Why didn’t you go to medical?” May asked. 

Skye knew better than to shrug, at least. 

“It’s not a big deal. I walked away. I’m fine. They’ll just say to rest it anyway.” 

“You’ve pulled two muscles,” May observed. “One here, lower back. One in your neck. You could have been very seriously hurt.” 

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t – so –“ 

Skye tried to shuffle out of May’s gaze, no longer so sure she wants the help, but she’s all but trapped between May and the dresser. If she really wanted to escape, she still could, but she’s already stepped into the lion’s den now. May must have seen them.

“What are these?” 

Skye closed her eyes, grimacing. 

“Are these why you didn’t go see someone?” 

Skye groaned. 

“Hey,” May scolded. “Look at me.” 

She did, reluctantly, but found a more gentle expression than she had been expecting. 

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” May said. “Fitz and Simmons will listen if you want to talk. But don’t you dare let yourself get hurt because of what’s already hurt you. Simmons is right, you could have been very seriously injured out there today. Maybe even paralysed. You could have fluid on your spine right now. Is it really worth dying, so that people won’t see those?” 

She prodded Skye’s scars. Some of them are so old she can’t quite remember her age when she got them, or even how. She had been a child. She had been in pain. Some of them she remembered, from a boy or two with the wrong ideas. Skye lowered her eyes.

“I’m not used to people knowing me,” she confessed. “I don’t like to…show them things.” 

“That’s fair enough,” May said. “But we all have scars, Skye. Don’t let yours be the death of you.”


	46. Bus Kids + Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a sequel to ch.37 (linked below) - Coffee Shop AU  
> Fitz & Daisy, Jemma & Hunter, romantic FitzSimmons

read part one [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7295626/chapters/22204256)

-

Fitz had big dreams, Daisy had to give him that, but between his hardware and her software knowledge, she wasn’t sure they were as far out of reach as others would have them believe. They weren’t home free – far from it – but they had an amiable and easygoing partnership going; a back-and-forward that Daisy hadn’t felt with many people in her life. She had always been the orphan, the stray; somehow always isolated from her peers, but here she felt respected. They were all misfits, of sorts, which probably helped, but Daisy didn’t mind that. She had a home here. And a job. And _really_ good pie. 

And with one project going so well, she was starting to think that perhaps it was time to turn her attention to another. 

Jemma had just taken their order and Fitz watched her back to the counter, and stared after her as if he didn’t realise he was doing it, until Daisy nudged his foot with hers under the table. 

“Why don’t you ever talk to her?” she asked. 

Fitz snorted. 

“I talk to her. I just asked her how her mother was, didn’t you hear?” 

Daisy rolled her eyes. 

“I mean, why don’t you talk to her about _real_ things? You don’t have to go straight up to her and tell her you like her –“ 

Fitz’s ears turned red at the thought, and Daisy grinned. 

“- I mean tell her about your work or your favourite TV show or whatever British nerds talk about these days. Tell her something about yourself. Something she can judge you for.” 

“I don’t think I’d put it that way,” Fitz retorted, although he was currently more preoccupied with figuring out how to act as casual as possible as Jemma returned to their table. 

“It’s true, though,” Daisy continued. “You’ve got to take some risks. Argue about pineapple on pizza, I don’t care, but if I have to hear her recite the tea menu one more time I’m going to shove it up your- Hi!” 

Beaming, she cut herself off and turned to Jemma to accept their incoming drinks. 

“My good friend Fitz and I were just having a debate about…Doctor Who,” she suggested. Jemma’s eyebrows raised in recognition. 

“Doctor Who? Really? I love Doctor Who!”

She glanced at Fitz, whose hands clenched his cup with excitement and nerves as he could feel Daisy staring him down, almost as powerfully as he could see the golden shine in Jemma’s eyes far too majestically from this angle. Swallowing hard, he dug up the words – 

“Yeah, so who’s your favourite?”

“I rather like One, to be honest,” Jemma confessed. “Although, out of the new lot, Ten, definitely.” 

“Oh, yeah, he’s great. I’m a fan of Eleven, too, myself.”

Jemma smiled. 

“I’d have thought you’d be a fan of Twelve.” 

“Hm?” Fitz blinked. He hadn’t been expecting the conversation to get this far. “Oh, because – because he’s Scottish! Good one. Yeah. Yeah, no, he’s a good one too.” 

“He is, isn’t he?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Yeah.” 

Jemma stood, Fitz sat, and they stared at each other for a few seconds before Jemma turned away and – if Fitz was not mistaken, by the sound of her shoes – hurried back to the counter.

“He’s not my favourite,” Fitz continued quietly. “But Capaldi’s a good bloke. He deserves it, I think.” 

“I definitely do not have enough of a clue what you are talking about.” Daisy held out her hands in surrender. “But hey, that wasn’t a complete disaster. You said words to each other, about things, it was good.” 

Fitz sighed and slumped back in his chair, playing with a sugar packet between his fingers. 

“Was it, though?” 

-

“ _Because he’s from Scotland?”_ Jemma muttered under her breath. “Oh, good one Jemma, great one, you were having a perfectly nice conversation and you let it fall flat over an accent joke. Brilliant. Fantastic.”

“Molto bene,” Hunter interrupted, prodding Jemma from her hyperfocused cleaning mission with a grin. Jemma glared up at him. 

“What?” He held out his hands innocently. “We did have free time in the army, you know. A man can have interests.” 

Jemma harrumphed, reluctantly conceding. She returned to cleaning, but more slowly and with less focus this time. 

“Has something caught… _your_ interest, perhaps?” Hunter wondered, glancing between her and where Fitz sat across the room. “A certain other Doctor Who fan I know? With the brains to possibly one day build an actual Tardis?” 

“No,” Jemma assured him. _“Nooo.”_ But her brain was already working, wondering, trying to recall if she knew – where had Fitz studied? What had he got? 

“Does he even know you’re a supergenius?” Hunter wondered. “You two should be taking over the world by now.” 

“It hasn’t come up,” Jemma protested.

“ _Hasn’t come up?!_ Blimey. You two are even more hopeless than I’d thought.” 

Jemma scoffed. She put her hands on her hips, sizing up to him and almost succeeding, despite her stature. 

“And when, Mr Hunter, might you have had occasion to imagine the two of us being anything _other_ than hopeless, hm? One might suspect that you have fingers in some pies you shouldn’t have, if you’ll pardon the pun.” 

“No fingers,” Hunter insisted. “Just eyes.” 

Jemma’s narrowed.

“What has he told you? What do you know?” 

“Oh, come on, supergenius. It’s obvious, isn’t it? He likes you!” 

“Likes me?” Jemma found herself surprisingly taken aback. Quieter, she repeated, “You think he likes me?” And it was her ears, this time, that were running through the shades of a rose garden. “But he didn’t even laugh at my joke!” 

“That was probably because it was a bad joke.” Hunter winced exaggeratedly and Jemma baulked.

“You’re a monster.”

“I guess it could have been because his mind is so blown by your presence that he couldn’t concentrate on what was, I’m sure, exceedingly hilarious and witty.” 

“That’s better.” Jemma stuck her chin in the air, leaning into the opportunity he was giving her to recover her dignity, but the blush didn’t quite leave her cheeks.


	47. Daisy & Coulson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Someone teaching Coulson how to dab, whip & nae-nae.  
> Crack/humour. Everyone's alive bc reasons.  
> Relationships: Coulson & Daisy, platonic Skimmons, bkgd romantic TripDaisy

“Did…somebody lose a bet?” Jemma wondered, frowning in confusion. 

“Or did somebody _win_ one?” Daisy wondered socratically, raising an eyebrow at the intrigue as she sipped her beer. Jemma sighed and turned her attention back to the spectacle before them, with the intent on answering that very question – only, the spectacle itself was befuddling enough. 

“What are they doing?” she wondered, nodding her head at where Trip was talking Coulson through a series of poses. Daisy pressed her lips together as if it was a struggle not to laugh, which suggested to Jemma that indeed she had won a bet, or was perhaps in the process of doing so. 

“Whipping,” Daisy explained, the word bursting from her lips like a hilarious secret. Jemma frowned. 

“Whipping what? ‘Whip it real good’ whipping?” 

Daisy snorted. 

“Okay, first of all, I cannot believe you even know ‘whip it real good’ and we’re going to have fun with that later, but second of all, no. It’s a new dance move. It requires a lot more hair than either of those two have, so they’re just going to be wriggling around for a while, but I thought I’d throw it out there.” 

“Trip appears to be quite good at it…I think?” Jemma narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. She wasn’t sure exactly what it was supposed to look like, but Trip had always had a good sense of rhythm and movement, and she had a feeling he was doing something right. 

“Trip did offer to put on a wig,” Daisy put in, “but we thought that might mess with the dabbing.” 

“With the what?” 

Trip demonstrated and Coulson followed, and Jemma jumped in surprise. 

“Oh! I know that one!”

Daisy just laughed, and the two of them watched Trip and Coulson assemble what appeared to be a routine of some sort. Then, much to the disappointment of their slowly gathering audience, the two of them parted ways. 

“Drink break,” Trip explained, swaggering up to Daisy and Jemma with a broad grin on his face. After taking a grateful swig of the drink Daisy offered him, Trip looked fondly back at the dance floor. 

“Your old man’s got moves,” he said. “He does not have hair. At all. But he has more flexible hips than any man over the age of 50 has any business with. I’ve gotta say, I’m impressed.” 

“Will _we_ be impressed?” Daisy challenged slyly. 

“We’ve been working on a little something,” Trip promised. “We even had Hunter and Bobbi pick the song. It’s going to be thoroughly embarrassing, I promise.” 

Daisy chuckled darkly. 

“Excellent.” 

“Ooh, drink break’s over,” Trip observed, as Coulson came back to the floor. “Prepare for side-splitting hilarity. My debt is repaid in three…two…” 

The opening notes of _Toxic_ played and Daisy bit her lip, already struggling not to laugh. Trip pecked her briefly on the lips before sprinting back to stage and taking his place beside Coulson for the hilarious – as promised – but at the same time, surprisingly well-choreographed and executed musical number that followed. Daisy and Jemma and indeed, most of the audience, were either joining in or hooting and cheering by the end of it. 

“Remind me never to lose a bet to you!” Jemma managed, smiling so widely her cheeks were starting to ache. 

“I can’t believe Coulson can actually dance,” Daisy remarked. “I mean Trip, sure, but Coulson?” 

“Well, _I_ just can’t believe you didn’t get that on camera!” Coulson declared, incredulous and a little accusatory as he left the dance-floor, stepping off his proverbial stage. “Once in a lifetime performance, Miss Johnson.” 

She crinkled her nose in laughter. “As if. You loved it. Probably planning a national tour as we speak.” 

Coulson raised his hands to his shoulders in a pantomime shrugging motion, and let himself be herded back onto the floor by the rejuvenated crowd as if their enthusiasm in itself proved his point. 


	48. MackElena + Team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Francesca's birthday and the family gets together.
> 
> FLUFF JUST A LOT OF FLUFF OKAY.  
> Set during ... some hypothetical fluff time, that's sort of in the future but also lowkey in the Bobbi Ann Verse. Take your pick. MackElena + their daughter Francesca (after Elena's cousin) + the Team.

“Aiya!” Elena cried, dodging out of the way and trying to keep a large and brimming salad bowl upright as her daughter shot past in the narrow kitchen. “Slow down, mi niña!”

“Slow down?” Mack turned away from the stove to look at her with a fondly critical eyebrow. “From you?” 

Elena snorted. 

“If you hadn’t got her the shoes with the wheelies on it, we wouldn’t have this problem.” 

“If _we_ hadn’t got her the shoes with the wheels,” Mack remarked, “she would have cut holes in the soles of hers and put wheels in them all by herself.” 

Elena rolled her eyes as she set the salad down on the bench. 

“At least Uncle Fitz isn’t making her a flying skateboard or something.” 

“Never say never,” Mack remarked, “he did promise me he’s been working on something.” 

“Unless it’s a self-emptying dishwasher, I don’t want to know.” Elena raised her palms to face the roof, washing her hands of the thought of it before returning to the meal preparations. They had enough food for a small army, but as her eyes ran over it, something was missing. 

“Los tostones!” She darted from her spot, to the fruit basket, and back. In an instant, the giant bananas were sliced and the stove was on, oil boiling. 

“You know,” Mack assured her, “I don’t think they’re going to be here _that_ soon.”

Of course, the universe couldn’t let him have that one, and the doorbell rang a moment later. Elena poked her tongue out for a moment, but just a moment, before their little girl came running – not wheeling, fortunately – back through the already crowded kitchen. 

“Kika, answer the door!” Elena encouraged, and leaned over the counter to watch as with considerable effort, the girl, whose head was still a few inches shy of the handle, hauled the door open. 

“Ola, Francesca!” Coulson greeted with a wide smile, as May reached over him to help the little girl keep the door open. As Coulson bumped and shoved his way through it, surrounded in a colourful myriad of gift bags, Mack came around the corner to greet them teatowel flung over his shoulder. 

“Wow!” Francesca cried, her attention torn between her father and the packages. “Are they all for _me,_ papi?” 

“In a minute, Tiny Toucan,” Mack assured her. “We’ve got to wait until everyone gets here, alright? Now how ‘bout a proper hello for May and Coulson, hm?” 

Begrudgingly – but only so begrudgingly as any child presented with delayed gratification on such a large pile of gifts, Francesca greeted the newcomers and danced around May, walking curious circles around her as they filed through the tight foyer space into the larger living area. A little bewildered by the questions already beginning to flow from Francesca’s lips, May was glad for Elena’s smile and the escape to the kitchen. She’d never been asked to keep an eye on deep fried bananas before. She certainly hadn’t been to a kitchen with this much variety in it before - not for a long time. 

“We should’ve put you on cooking more often,” May remarked. Elena shrugged. 

“We make a lot of food for parties. I couldn’t do this every day!” And then, re-evaluating with a laugh, she added – “Well _I_ could, but the Turtle Man would be exhausted.” 

May snorted, and Elena grinned. 

“Mamaaa,” Francesca interrupted. “Who’s coming again?”

“Your Uncle Fitz and Aunty Jemma, and Aunty Daisy.” 

“Is Bobbi-Ann coming?” 

“Yes.”

“YESSSSS!” Throwing her fist in the air victoriously, Francesca ran out of it, out of the room, chasing it in a Superman-style pose. May shook her head, smiling good naturedly. Elena chuckled, and muttered almost to herself - 

“I certainly hope little Bobbita’s had a haircut recently.”

“What for?” May wondered. “Oh these look, uh, done I think.” She stepped back, and Elena began plucking the bananas from the oil with a set of tongs and dropping them onto the paper towel.

“It’s nothing,” Elena said with a shrug, and gestured to a bowl of what appeared to be caramel sauce, sitting on the bench. “We just have some very sticky food. Arequipe. It’s a nightmare, and poor Daisy will be cleaning her child and then cleaning the bathroom for months.”

“And this doesn’t have anything to do with last year’s crayon incident?” May speculated.

Elena shrugged cryptically, and almost managed to deadpan it, but for a mischevious sparkle in her eyes that gave the game away. 

“It’s not my fault the food of my people needs its own brand of shampoo.” 

She took a plate of empanadas and the salad bowl, and gestured for May to grab something too – she reached for the nearest, a dish of some sort of soup? – and they returned to the dining room just as the doorbell rang again. Mack helped Francesca open the door this time and Jemma, Fitz, Daisy and Bobbi-Ann poured in. After some brief greetings, Francesca and Bobbi-Ann shot to the table with the promise that Francesca was about to receive a huge pile of presents, now that everyone was here. She promised – very loudly, so that her parents and Daisy could definitely here – to share.

“They’re adorable!” Daisy remarked, as the aunties and uncles settled themselves around the dining table in the face of two bolt-upright, crisp-mannered, but increasingly fidgety and impatient young girls. “Ah, when did we get so grown up?” 

“Never!” Fitz declared, and slapped his gift down on the table in front of Francesca with gusto. Elena groaned.

“Please don’t be a hoverboard,” she whispered. 

“A what?” 

It was too late to pretend she’d said nothing, but fortunately, while Fitz spiralled off this way and that with ideas, Elena's attention was drawn back to Francesca, who was ripping open a solar panel circuit assembly kit. 

“It comes with a fan,” Jemma explained since Fitz was distracted. “But Fitz thought that was a little dry, so he made a little – “

“Aw!” Francesca squealed. “Mummy! Look!” 

She held a tiny dog, just a little too big to comfortably fit in her hand. It appeared to be made all of moving pieces, like a little clockwork machine. 

“COOL!” Bobbi-Ann cried. “What are you gonna call it? Does it move? Does it _bark?”_

“I’m sure Uncle Fitz would be happy to show you, right?” Mack suggested. “But do you want to finish opening your presents first?” 

“Yes!!”

Francesca squirmed in her seat, her wide eyes hungry as the family ferried Coulson’s copious pile of gifts onto and around the table. 

“Now, some of those aren’t as cool as a robot dog,” Coulson admitted. “There’s some pyjamas and socks in there. But! Also! A train set, huh? And there’s a kit in there for making bottle rockets and you can even put a little message inside and shoot it up into the sky!”

“Woah!”

Francesca couldn’t decide which bag to look at first. Bobbi-Ann got in on the action eventually, and the two of them picked through the pile under the amused eyes of the family that loved them. A feeling of warmth settled over the table, unbeknownst to the girls lost in conversation of their own, as between the adults the disarrayed beginning settled into contentment. They didn’t all get together as much anymore, but it was hard to think of a better occasion than this.


	49. Daisy & Coulson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crack/fluff - the team have fun with a new Snapchat filter.

“…And to end the meeting on a lighter note,” Coulson said at last, “it is my pleasure to announce that our very own Agent Daisy Johnson now has her own Snapchat filter.” 

A beat of amused silence passed over the room. Then came puzzlement as they realised that, if this was a joke, it was a weirdly specific one. 

“No way,” Daisy said. “Really?” 

She scrambled for the nearest smartphone and searched until she found it: a Snapchat filter called “Quake.” She jumped in her seat and waved the phone high in the air with a squeal of victory. 

“GUYS! This is it! It’s official! I’ve Arrived.” 

Still snickering with laughter, and beaming, Daisy snapped a shot of Fitz where he sat across the table, and frowned down at it before she showed it around. The filter was a little greyed out, and had black smudges like those from her vigilante days around wherever it detected the eyes. A cartoon supersuit collar framed the bottom of the screen and, to Daisy’s enormous pleasure, a ‘crack’ appeared where she tapped.

(She tapped it a few extra times, for good measure, and then realised that people were actually trying to look). 

“Okay, so Fitz is not the best example,” she explained. “They could have toned down the racoon eyes. Although it does make him look a bit like Billy Joe Armstrong.”

Before anyone could confess to not knowing who that was, Coulson clapped hands together. 

“Right, well, we’ve all got places to be so –“ 

“In-office photo comp!” Daisy demanded, jumping out of her seat as the meeting room began to empt. “Next week’s meeting. By the power vested in me by almighty Snapchat, I challenge you all to a duel!” 

- 

Unfortunately, the idea didn’t take off as well as Daisy might have liked, but her faithful team was never one to disappoint. They even stayed, after everyone else had been let go, for Daisy to steal the show. She pulled up a powerpoint that she had compiled earlier without looking at the pictures, and cleared her throat, and began.

“So, Fitz is sticking with those Green Day vibes, alright,” she mused, “a bit of a candid shot. Nice.

“And now Jemma,” she continued, examining the next slide. “She’s gone the Charlie’s Angels. A true classic.” Daisy bowed her head in Jemma’s direction, and Jemma bowed back. 

“And next up is… not May,” Daisy amended as she spoke, “because I have been threatened with spiflication if I ever show you what I have witnessed and I’m not sure what that is but, unfortunately for all of you, I don’t care to find out. So… onto Coulson and – oh, my god, I think we have a winner.” 

“It’s the eyes,” Coulson remarked. “You gotta get the eyes. Although I don’t think the catsuit neckline does wonders for my figure.” 

“I like the arm,” Jemma pointed out, and mimicked his dramatic pose.

“What, uh, what facial expression are you going for there, Coulson?” Fitz wondered, frowning exaggeratedly up at the screen. It was - or at least, it was trying to be – a sort of smouldering, sensual pout. It was difficult for a 50+ year old man to pull off at the best of times, but Coulson was leaning into the comedy. 

“Sex sells,” he explained with a shrug, then eyed Daisy. “And you can’t tell me you don’t play it up sometimes.” 

“It’s true,” Daisy conceded, “although usually, it’s while I’m thinking of bomb-ass one-liners I’d actually be way too chicken to say. Either way, our applause-o-meter is telling me you’ve won the day! Congratulations!”

“Excellent!” Coulson cheered. “What do I win?”

“Uh.” She hadn’t really thought of this part. “My eternal love?” 

Coulson grinned. “I’ll take it.” 

-

He also won, as he found out that evening, a printed and autographed copy of the photograph he had taken, signed by the hero herself, as well as a photo of her shaking hands with him as she handed over the signed picture. The first, he tucked inside an old novel he’d never finish reading.

The second, he put in pride of place on his memorabilia shelf, right where it belonged. 

 


	50. Fitz & Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-Framework, Daisy helps Fitz see past his trauma. Hurt/comfort, with happy ending.

Fitz slammed the screwdriver down on the bench and forced his hand to let go of it, raking his fingers through his hair instead and pulling until the pressure stabilised him. He let out a deep breath, and then another, and opened his eyes again with his hand still in his hair. He stared at the screwdriver sitting before him, taunting him, and he felt another wave of rage and hopelessness as the sight of it swept him even further back, past the Framework, into another pit of despair. A pit he’d climbed out of that time, at least. 

“You did it before,” he whispered, clinging to that flicker of hope. “Just do it again.” 

“Did what?” 

Fitz jumped so aggressively he nearly knocked over his own stool, scrabbling for the screwdriver in an instant. He wondered if it was _Madame’s_ face he’d see behind him, and if he’d have the guts to put the screwdriver through her eye. 

But it was Daisy. 

“Woah, hey, sorry.” She raised her hands, pretending to be off-handedly offended so he couldn’t see that she’d jumped too. Not sure it had worked as planned, she frowned softly and strolled further into the room, approaching slowly and gently. 

“What’re you doing?” she asked. Fitz sighed loudly. 

“Nothing, apparently,” he snapped. “Can’t touch a thing. Can’t build anything. Not even a toaster. Literally. That’s a toaster right there.” 

“Really?” Daisy frowned deeper, leaning over him examining the scattered parts. She couldn’t see it. Then again, she’d never been Fitz. 

“Well, it was going to be,” Fitz explained, “but I can’t… I don’t know how to explain it. It’s not even the aphasia or my hands or anything. It’s just…”

“Writer’s block?” 

“Yeah. I guess.” 

Fitz sighed again, and pinched his nose, and Daisy rubbed her hand over his nearest shoulder in sympathy. 

“Give yourself a break,” she insisted. “You don’t have anything to prove, okay?” 

Fitz grimaced. His father’s harsh face was burned into the back of his eyelids. How much of that had been based on real life? Was it even his real face? His real father? The real sting of a belt-strap across his back? How much was Aida’s creation, and how much had he just forgotten? 

Daisy leaned further over him and wrapped her arms around him in a hug. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “but I might have something that can help.” 

“Lead the way.” 

- 

Daisy led him to one of the side rooms she’d coopted as her office space. She had her laptop set up on the desk and plugged into another monitor, and in front of them was a 360-degree projector. As they walked in, the lights turned on, and then lowered as the projector took priority. All around them, all over the walls, was a flow chart with hundreds, maybe thousands of possibilities. 

“Daisy?” Fitz wondered, turning slowly as he entered the room, attempting to read the boxes, but there were too many. A few stuck in his mind: _The Pod. Father left._ But not enough for him to figure it out. “What is this?” 

“It’s a map,” Daisy said, “of your choices. Sort of.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

_Joined Shield. Left Shield._

_Stayed in Scotland. Left Scotland._

Fitz jumped when some of the boxes lit up in red. Taking a step back, he followed their path around the room, climbing upward and upward to ever-smaller boxes as choices split off from choices split off from choices. His eyes followed and the computer zoomed in as it reached its final conclusion: 

_Fitz is Hydra._

His breath caught. He clenched his fist, and asked tightly: 

“Why would you show me that?”

“The red is, from what I can remember, the path that Aida made you take. She set up an algorithm that mapped this out for you, and this was the path she picked. Now, obviously, I don’t know every choice you’ve ever faced or every circumstance you’ve ever been in, so I made some up, and I thought I’d show you…” 

Daisy scrolled down, letting the final conclusions of some of the pathways roll past Fitz’s eyes. 

Some of them were unpleasant:

_Fitz dies. Fitz is trapped in another dimension. Fitz leaves._

Some of them, he just hadn’t seen in himself: 

 _Fitz is a journalist. Fitz is a surgeon. Fitz works in hospice care._  

Gradually they start getting more and more like him: 

 _Fitz is a speech therapist.  
_ _Fitz is a conservationist.  
_ _Fitz is a teacher.  
_ _Fitz is a Dad._  

And he was smiling by the time he got to

 _Fitz is Fitz._  

It lit up blue. 

Daisy touched his shoulder again, drawing his attention so that she could explain, as she put the full flow chart back up. Blue path after blue path lit up, as hundreds of pathways that did not lead to the first conclusion took their course.

“Look,” she said. “I’ll be honest, I think what happened to you in there was brainwashing, but the reality is, greater minds than I have been arguing about what that entails for longer than we’ve both been alive. Either way, it was fucked up. But here’s what I do know. 

“You are here. You are you. Whatever choices you made to get here, whatever happened to push you to make those choices, they are all part of you. This you. _Real_ you. You are who _you_ are, not who he is, and I am grateful for that. I love you. You’re my best friend. And –“ 

Daisy blinked. In hindsight, she should have been expecting to get choked up, but she didn’t think it would be this visceral. 

“-And it hurts me, so, so much, that anyone or anything could ever turn you into something so… not what you are. Someone so hateful and…” 

She shook her head.

“But you’re not that. _You_ would never choose to be that. Whatever else, you wouldn’t be that. But, uh, going back to the toaster…you don’t always have to be _this_ either.” 

Fitz frowned, confused, and Daisy blinked back her tears and brought up some of the final options again. The positive ones. The ones he could be. 

“Look. Fitz,” she began again. “When I ran away, after Lincoln, it was because… I needed to remake myself. I needed to decide who I was after that. Even though it wasn’t my fault, it still made me feel like all I did was just… bring death to everyone. That’s why I left. If you need to leave – if you need to run away and save the orang-utans tomorrow or something… I’ll understand. I’ll miss you a hell of a lot and I’ll visit every other day but, like, I’ll get it.” 

Her eyes dropped, vulnerable, and Fitz felt a tightness in his chest under the weight of her concern and love. 

“Are you saying I should leave Shield?” he wondered. 

“No,” Daisy said. “I’m just saying… You shouldn’t stay just because you always have. Maybe Leo Fitz: toymaker just hasn’t had his shot yet, that’s all.” 

Fitz snorted, looking up and down the list of Daisy’s ideas. 

“You really think I could make toys? For a living?” 

“Sure.” Daisy smiled a little. “And if _you_ don’t, you’ve never seen yourself in those kooky watchmaker’s glasses.” 

“They’re called loupe,” Fitz pointed out. 

“Of course they are.” 

Fitz smiled at her, and she smiled back, and he pulled her into a one-armed hug, looking up at the list she had presented with pride and gratitude. Daisy smiled fondly up at it too, proud of the diversity of optimistic options she had presented, and glad to have brought them both some happiness and cleared some of the clouds from her best friend’s mind. 

“Thank you, Daisy,” Fitz said, his voice raw with sincerity. She wrapped her arms around his torso in a sideways bear-hug. 

“I love you too.”


	51. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fitzsimmons go shopping between season 3 and 4, and they bring Daisy to try to cheer her up.
> 
> Rshps: Daisy & Jemma, Bus Kids, lots of refs to romantic FitzSimmons & Static Quake.

“Jemm- _aaa,”_ Fitz moaned. 

“Yes _Fiiiiitz,”_ she said, mimicking his tone without turning to look at him. She ran her fingers down some corduroy and grimaced, regretting the unpleasant texture. 

“Why not go back to that yellow one back there?” Fitz proposed. “We both liked that one, right?”

“We both _liked_ it,” Jemma repeated, “but we didn’t _love_ it.” 

“It’s a curtain!” Fitz blurted. “What is there to love?!”

“Fitz! I intend to have as many windows as humanly possible. Whatever fabric we choose today will be within our field of vision at all times. We have to love it!” 

“It’s lemon yellow! It’s not like it’s offensive to the eye! Unlike that white and green cheesecloth monstrosity-” 

“Alright, alright!” Daisy stepped in between them, making a ‘T’ for ‘time-out’ signal with her hands. “Fitz, why don’t you go check out… TVs or something. There must be some new LCD curved screen 3D AI 2-point-0 model or something to argue about with the poor fifteen year olds.” 

Fitz scowled. There was no such thing as AI television and he’d never heard of a 2.0 model, but he got the feeling that was not Daisy’s point. Well, anything to get him out of another _second_ of this inane curtain shop. 

“Run along then!” Daisy insisted. “We’ll meet you at the ice-cream place after.” 

Fitz glanced at Jemma, who begrudgingly gestured toward the door. His face lit up, beaming. 

“I’ll buy you curly fries,” he offered Daisy with gratitude. She smiled briefly. 

“I’d like that.” 

As he bounded away with the enthusiasm of a Looney Tunes character, Daisy sighed heavily. 

“I’m sorry,” Jemma apologised. “We were supposed to be trying to cheer you up.” 

“Nah, it’s okay,” Daisy said with a shrug. “You two are pretty cute actually. And I love that you’re picking out curtains when you don’t even know the colour scheme of your house yet.” 

“Rustic, but go on,” Jemma deadpanned, and Daisy’s lips twitched upward again, and she tried to figure out whether Jemma was joking or not. After a moment, her humour faded a little. 

“I just… I miss it,” she explained, grasping at straws to describe the feeling. “All this couples stuff, y’know? Lincoln was the first guy in – in a long time that I’ve actually been able to, like… imagine myself with. In the future. Stupid daydreams and stuff, you know, like taking the kids to a holiday house at the lake. I don’t know why. I’ve never had a holiday house on a lake. Been to one, once, but that’s about it. It just seemed like a nice thought. And now…” 

She ran her eyes up the row of curtain clothes beside them. It wasn’t as visceral as grief, this sorrow she felt. It wasn’t the loss of something real. It was the loss of a dream, and one she wasn’t even sure she truly wanted, but it still hurt, and she wondered if Jemma could understand that.

Jemma put a hand over Daisy’s, drawing her attention with a gentle, concerned gaze. Daisy had tears in her eyes now; her lips trembling as she finally expressed something she hadn’t quite grasped before. 

“I just don’t know what the future’s going to be anymore. I mean, I know I never did, but I thought I could make my own before and after watching that – after seeing him –“ 

Jemma wrapped her arms around Daisy, as if she could hold her together by the sheer force of her love. Daisy clung onto her for dear life as, in the middle of the isle of corduroy and calico curtains, a tidal wave of emotion crashed around her. She held onto Jemma like a rock in a storm until she felt the worst of it pass. 

Jemma felt it too. 

“You can still make your own future,” Jemma promised, a reassuring whisper in Daisy’s ear now that the height of the crisis was over. “Always. And you will always have us - Fitz and me, and Coulson, and May… As long as you want us, we’ll be here. Probably longer. Okay?” 

Daisy wasn’t sure if it was okay. She wasn’t sure if anything would ever be okay again. She wasn’t sure why she was here, buying curtains, when she could have been across the way messing with new phones. She wasn’t sure why she was in this building at all, why she continued to let Jemma and Fitz and the others into her life when her future just felt like death. But she clung to Jemma a little longer, soaking up the honesty and rawness and love and trying to make herself believe Jemma’s words. 

Before Jemma could get suspicious – Daisy hoped – she pulled back a little and smiled. She wasn’t completely off the hook, judging by Jemma’s ever-scrutinising gaze, and so she tried not to look too desperate to get away with it. 

“Our choices matter, Daisy,” Jemma repeated: fiercely, stubbornly. Daisy thought of Lincoln, and his choice, and the way that wound was still bleeding inside her, but she looked around too, and thought about FitzSimmons, and how they were here making cute domestic choices about their cute, domestic future, because it was the one they were determined to have. If these two could make it, after all they had been through, maybe – _maybe -_ she could too, after all. 

She smiled again, for real this time, and only then did Jemma relinquish her intense attention, turning back to the materials around them. 

“Now, in the smoothest segue ever,” Daisy began, wiping tears off her face as she gestured with one arm back the way they had come. “’Speaking of choice,’ I think the yellow curtains were great, but you should also consider maroon, especially if you want pale walls. And you should get sheer white curtains too, for when you want to let the sun in. Which will be always.” 

“Always.” 

This time, it was Jemma’s turn to smile. It was soft at first – quiet, like a private joke, like a stolen smile in a fabric isle in a precarious point in all their lives – and then it broadened as familiar footsteps and a voice that filled her with joy re-entered.

“Daisy!” he was calling. “Daisy! They’ve got a remote control helicopter demonstration in the mall. You and me, death battle for curly fries.” 

“Um, excuse me?” Jemma scoffed. “I’m your girlfriend now, I get first helicopter death battle privileges.” 

“Sorry, I thought you’d rather get some towels monogrammed,” Fitz replied, just as stubbornly, before a grin broke out on his face. Jemma rolled her eyes. 

“You and Daisy can go first,” she conceded, “but I’m playing the winner. And we’re not getting monogrammed towels.” 

“Yeah, Fitz, save something for the wedding why don’t you?” Daisy prodded. “You guys keep stealing all my gift ideas. I’m stuck between a rice cooker and a welcome mat.” 

“Having an entirely separate device to cook rice is silly.” 

“But more efficient,” Fitz pointed out, “if you’re already using your pot for something else.” 

“Just use the microwave!” Daisy advocated. 

“Of course _you_ would say that, you cook everything in a microwave. You’ve probably never turned a stove on in your life!”

“I’ll have you know, microwaving’s supposed to be healthier because –“ 

“Because? Oh we’re going to take on the super-genius biologist with pop science now? Pray do tell.” 

They left the corduroy and soon even the lemon-yellow curtains behind them and wandered down the mall, bickering all the way.


	52. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end of "Spacetime," Fitz & Simmons find Daisy on the roof and help her. (Angst, hurt/comfort)  
> Bus Kids, several references to romantic FitzSimmons.

“I think we’re supposed to hold hands now.” 

Bewildered, Fitz can hardly do more than watch as Jemma, smiling, intertwines her hand with his. It feels like a dream, and though the soft glow is fire and the white-grey substance swirling down around them is not snow, he relishes the peace of the moment for a while… 

And then peace slowly turns into unsettling silence. He can feel it in the way Jemma’s fingers are starting to grip his just a little too tightly, and the way his own breath is shallow in his chest. The fighting really has gone quiet up above – it is not just in their imaginations – and of course, with light from the fire, what’s swirling around them is _ash._

“Daisy,” Fitz whispers at last, and the worry and the energy that has been building up inside Jemma snaps like a rubber band. 

She slips into warrior mode, eyes like a cat, pistol held at her side as she leads the way, raid-style, into the building. Fitz has his eyes on his tablet, searching for Daisy. There are so many flashing lights and black spots where alarms have been set off and sensors destroyed, but he find a weak signal that must be hers. 

“The roof,” he instructs, pointing over Jemma’s shoulder, and following her through corridors and across rooms littered with bodies. Some of them are moving, but only just. In one room, a man bends over his comrade, tending to what appears to be a broken arm. They meet eyes with each other, but pass in mutual armistice. 

Jemma is the first to step onto the roof, and then she stops. 

Before her, the billboard is peeling and crackling in flames – so that is what had rained down upon them. In the orange light, harsh and broken up by deep shadows at this angle, two bodies lay in the middle of the concrete, unmoving. One she recognises as Charles, the Inhuman with the visions. The other is – and of course it is, but the shape of the face hits her in a flicker of sharp red and black that takes her breath away – is Daisy.

“Fitz,” Jemma gasps as she runs forward, stuffing the pistol into its holster before she drops to her knees at Daisy’s side. Of course, even without her beckoning, Fitz is on her heels and kneels on the other side, by the old man.

Daisy’s drowsy eyes blink open. Jemma’s face is above her, obscured in the shadow and fiery wrath of their surroundings, but unmistakable. 

“Hey,” Daisy greets, and though the word comes out much more slowly and less clearly than it had sounded in her head, it is enough. The relief is visible on Jemma’s face – and then, sorrow again, as Jemma looks across to Fitz who has checked on Charles and confirmed what Daisy already knows. She feels her body shudder again at the crushing weight of it all. Failure after failure has plagued her today, and her mind is almost as exhausted as her body.

“Can you move?” Jemma asks. “We should get you back to the Zephyr.” 

A feeling like dry desert wind sucks the air and the water from Daisy’s throat. The vision replays in her head. The shoulder; the flames; the frustrating inability to see who it is. Are they about to walk someone to their deaths? So soon? And what did the stars have to do with anything, the Zephyr couldn’t fly that high, right? Is she remembering correctly? 

Daisy groans, her head spinning. 

“Oh, no, stay with me,” Jemma frets. Daisy’s eyes drift in and out of focus, and Jemma feels a lump in her throat. Fitz is a few feet away, calling for a stretcher to take Charles away, but his eyes are on Daisy, and on Jemma, monitoring the situation. As soon as the call is done, he joins Jemma in hauling Daisy up from the ground. Her spine is not damaged, though he can hear and feel the cry of pain she resists as every wounded muscle and bone is forcibly rearranged. She digs her fingers into Fitz’s arm as he tries to take most of her weight, but she is trembling from exhaustion, and her toes scrabble at the ground as if she’s still trying to stand.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got her,” he assures both Daisy and Jemma, who is shorter than he is, and would drag Daisy along the ground if she’d been the one to carry her. 

“The bird,” Daisy mutters, grabbing at Fitz with tiny pulses of desperation as if trying to steer his attention toward something. “Bird.” 

Fitz and Jemma scan the ground, and Jemma’s eyes find it first: a wooden, hand-carved bird figurine, sitting a few inches from Charles’ outstretched fingers. Still hesitant to leave Daisy’s side, Jemma nevertheless branches out and picks it up. Daisy breathes a sigh of relief, and Fitz feels her weight drop dead against him at last. Jemma shucks her way under Daisy’s arm, taking a little of her weight back, and cradles the bird against herself with her free hand, and they hobble back down the stairs and through the corridors. 

Daisy’s breathing quickens as they set foot on the Zephyr, but so does her exhausted, overwhelmed trembling. As Fitz settles her on a bed in the med bay, Jemma darts off to find the materials to help her.

“The bird,” Daisy insists, distressed, her voice rasping. 

“It’s right here,” Fitz assures her, showing it to her, and then resting it on the bed, within her reach. Daisy lurches into an upright sitting position, and Fitz raises his hands in protest, but Daisy doesn’t get very far before she shudders again and has to bury her head in her hand to stop the dizzying world spinning around her. 

Fitz hands her the bird instead, and that seems to help, once she has her fingers wrapped around it, but though he doesn’t want to leave Daisy’s side, he does his best to look around for a sick bucket. That’s the face of someone about to vomit if ever he’s seen one.

But somehow, Daisy’s stomach remains strong for the moment, and she surrenders herself fairly willingly when Jemma returns with water bottles and electrolytes and antiseptic and bandages, and shoos Fitz out of the room. 

“You came to get me,” Daisy murmurs, still a little bewildered. 

“Always,” Jemma promises, with a slightly lopsided smile, taken aback. “We always will. Now rest, you. I don’t want to hear another peep.” 

Daisy shakes her head. 

“No, I have to-“ 

“No, you don’t.” 

“No, I mean I have to-“ 

“Oh.” Jemma passes her a plastic bin. 

When it’s over, and most of the blood and bruises and broken bones have been checked over, Jemma beckons Fitz back. He eyes the bin warily, and passes Daisy another bottle of water, and Daisy smiles a little. 

“Looking for a scented candle?” she jests, and Fitz feels himself smile, though his chest is still tense with a myriad of feelings. 

They’re interrupted by a knock on the door, and one of the crew informs Jemma that they’re touching down soon.

“Good.” Daisy’s uneasy smile drops, precipitating urgent action mode. She launches herself out off the bed, driven by burning instinct to get off the plane as quickly as possible and outrun the vision if she can, but her ankles, knees, everything, give way beneath her and she would have tumbled in a heap if not for Fitz and Jemma rushing in, catching her and scooping her up, back to her feet. This time, she lets them push her all the way back to lying down. Funny how the world is less spinny and her stomach less clenched down here. (It’s almost like they invented beds for a reason). 

“So…” she asks, as they bustle about the bed, pulling up the side rails and checking on things they should bring with them as they prepare to get her off this godforsaken aircraft - not that they know it. They pause in their ministrations, both their eyes fixed on her. 

“Did you guys hold hands after all?” 

They smile, and for now, that’s all Daisy needs to know.


	53. Coulson & Cap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Coulson is made an honourary Howling Commando  
> Coulson & Cap, Fury, May. Set immediately(ish) pre-series.

They kept asking him about Tahiti. Of course, it was a magical place, he would reply. He couldn’t really remember what he’d done there – apart from lots of massages and mojitos – but then, he had been recovering from a serious injury. A close encounter of the deadly kind. And by his recall, there had been a _lot_ of mojitos. 

So Coulson milled amongst the small crowd answering person after person, less of a faceless man and more of a socio-diplomatic butterfly than he had been in… well, possibly ever. It occurred to him, belatedly, that he still didn’t know what this shindig was for – although, he was apparently about to find out, as the microphone squealed and footsteps shook the hollow wooden deck set up at the front of the room. The footsteps of none other than Nick Fury, and Captain Steve Rogers himself. 

“Evening, everybody,” Fury greeted gruffly. “We’ve all got places to be and technically this meeting isn’t even happening right now, so I’m going to keep it brief. I’ve asked you all here tonight to take a moment to honour one of the unsung heroes of the Battle of New York – just back from his recovery stint in Tahiti – Agent Phil Coulson, who gave his life, if briefly, for the cause and for some stupid ass reason, decided to step right back into the fray with the rest of us mortals. Coulson, if you’d like to step up here?” 

He was already moving before he realised exactly what was going on. He was being honoured? Captain America was here? Was he dreaming? He’d have to ask May to pinch him later. Although… there she was, he could see now. Near the back of the crowd. Smiling a little? (Definitely dreaming).

And then for a few seconds all he could think was _Captain America is shaking my hand_ and the questions and suspicions faded from his mind as the Captain showed his bloody collector’s edition card to the crowd, and retold the story of what Coulson’s extraordinary service and death – albeit briefly – had done for the fragmented force at hand, galvanizing it into the unstoppable force that was the Avengers. Coulson held his chin up a little higher at that, even though he felt a little like crying too. He’d never expected to hear himself described in such noble terms. 

“It’s this kind of extraordinary service,” Cap finished, “that Shield is built on, that the Avengers are built on. It’s this kind of extraordinary service that I believe can save the world. And so, uh, I’d like to offer Agent Coulson a personal token of my gratitude and present him with this pin, from a design based off my good friends the Howling Commandos, some of the greatest men with whom I ever had the pleasure of serving. Unfortunately I can’t offer you the rank officially, but I hear you’re something of a Shield history buff so, I hope the gesture is not lost on you.”

“Not at all, Cap –Mr Steve – sir,” Coulson stammered. Steve smiled and pinned the badge to Coulson’s lapel, then gestured at the microphone. 

“Would you like to say a few words?” 

Coulson was unsure, but he couldn’t very well turn it down. He stepped up to the podium with a lump in his throat, with his heart racing a thousand miles an hour. He’d never been one for standing at the front of the room. He’d always preferred working from the shadows. But, he found, he did have something to say. 

“Good evening everyone,” he began, a little shakily. “Thanks for coming out tonight, taking time out from your busy schedules for an event that doesn’t exist.”(He paused for brief laughter, just in case). 

“I’m honoured to be recognised for this sacrifice of mine and I’m honoured to have been cared for so well by this organisation in the aftermath of it. I know not all our veterans, unfortunately, receive the same level of care and respect that I have. I know that many of us, many of you out there, in this room and beyond, have stories of sacrifice for which you’ve never been recognised like I have, or for which recognition… cannot soothe the wounds that sacrifice often leaves.” His eyes darted to May for a moment, and dropped back to the podium before him as if he had notes written there, before he looked back out to the crowd. 

“But I also know that many of us have stepped back into the fray after a loss. I know that many of us have lost and kept losing, and more of us will continue to do so, in the name of what is good, and what we believe in. As a proud American, as the son of a war veteran, and as, for a short time, the partner of a beautiful Jewish woman whose freedom was hard fought and won by herself and her family and countrymen… I know, as do all of you out there, that the price of freedom is often high, but I also know that I am not the only one who is willing to pay it. And so for recognition of my price – Cap, Director – I thank you. But I also thank every person in this room, including the both of you, for the sacrifices you continue to make every day, and for the victories, and the freedom that is only possible because of them. Your leadership is an inspiration and I am honoured to be part of it.” 

“Hold onto your socks, then, Phil,” Fury joked. “Because I have one more offer for you.”


	54. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4x21 coda, angst/hurt/comfort.  
> Fitz & Daisy, Bus Kids.

Daisy held her breath as the Zephyr took off. It was quiet – as quiet as it ever was on this plane with the roar of the engines outside and the occasional blip of machinery within. It was so quiet, that when she heard it, she couldn’t let it go. 

Fitz was crying. 

A sharp pain splintered through her chest and she gritted her teeth. Of course he was crying; he was lost and confused, and they’d all been ignoring or yelling at him all day, and people had been dying all around him since he’d woken up, and even before that. But Daisy held her breath. The shell that she’d built around the terror and pain since hearing Aida had taken him was beginning to crack, but she was not sure if she was ready to let it go yet. May had always said not to go into a situation without knowing what she was prepared to do. What if it was a trick? Would she be prepared to hurt him? What if it wasn’t a trick at all, but the sight of him blinded her, and she only saw the man who’d had her beaten? What would that do to him, to her, to them? 

What was it doing to them now, she wondered; her standing out here speculating on suspicions, while not just one world, but two, crashed down around him? 

Daisy let out a sigh, and felt the tears prick at the corners of her eyes. She gathered her strength and crept back toward the pod. Jemma had disappeared. Maybe she was in there. Maybe she could take care of it. Maybe Daisy shouldn’t – 

She stopped in the doorway out of shock more than out of conscious decision. Rather than the smooth, cold man who’d wiped her blood off his hands with a handkerchief, she saw him. Her friend. Her protector – or at least, so he had tried to be. Her Fitz, but beaten down in every conceivable way, and shaking, and weeping with overwhelming terror and shame and grief. Jemma, a little hesitantly – still shaken herself – had her arms wrapped around his back, squeezing his shoulder, a tiny smile on her face even as her eyes streamed with tears. It was him, he was here, the real Fitz, and he was safe and she was safe and they had so much to cry for, but at least they could do it together. 

Then Jemma saw Daisy in the doorway and couldn’t help but stiffen a little. She’d never been one for public breakdowns. And even though she relaxed once she saw that it was Daisy – that she was not being called upon to stiffen her upper lip once more – she had already alerted Fitz to someone else’s presence. He looked up, and met Daisy’s eyes, and let out a strangled gasp of agony before hiding his head again, cowering under the protection of Jemma’s arms. 

Daisy stepped further into the pod, feeling her lips quiver with words and tears even though she didn’t know what to say. 

“Fitz,” she murmured eventually. “It’s alright.” 

“I _hurt_ you,” he breathed, still unable to look at her. He held his hands out, trembling, as if he could still see the blood on them. “I hurt you and I – I killed so many…” 

At last the tears began to slip down Daisy’s cheeks too, as she thought of the Vijay and the Gordon and the Lincoln in the other world. She hadn’t known them, but she had known versions of them. She hadn’t been subjected to what they had, but she shared the reason for their suffering, and the pain of it. Knowing that this Fitz – her Fitz, the one who had held her and helped her find light again - would not only have opposed it, but would have gone to great lengths to stop it had he not been the one twisted into doing it, was a fistful of salt rubbed into the wound as he sat weeping in front of her, and it ripped the fragile shell in Daisy’s chest wide open. 

She knelt in front of him, trying to catch his eyes, and settled for taking one of his hands and squeezing it tightly, trying to instil her promise in him. 

“It wasn’t you,” she insisted, as much to herself as to Fitz. “I know... I know it wasn’t…”

And it hurt, because while she couldn’t feel the sting of his hand across her cheek anymore like she had feared, he continued to avoid her gaze, and the warmth of his embrace when he’d told her it was going to be okay was just as far from her as the pain. Suddenly, that embrace was all she wanted, but she doubted he’d be leaving the unbreakable shelter of Jemma’s embrace any time soon. And he still couldn’t look at her. 

(Maybe he couldn’t look at Jemma either – maybe that’s why she’d wrapped herself around him like this instead of tucking herself against his chest and looking into his eyes and drinking in their togetherness. Maybe that was a good thing, because Jemma could comfort him and find comfort in his presence, his return, without being faced quite yet with the possibility that she might not see Fitz’s eyes next time she looked into them. She might see the eyes of the man who’d shot a civilian, or the LMD who’d tried to kill her, and who she’d had to brutally kill instead. Even if it wasn’t his fault, she might see it, she might not ever truly unsee it, and then what? What would she have to be prepared to do?) 

So FitzSimmons sat, together but not unbroken, and weeping, and Daisy felt helpless and small and trapped and the unpredictability of the world felt less like an exciting miracle than it ever had, and more like a monster waiting somewhere down the road to recovery, laying traps, laying in wait. Jemma was reaching out and Fitz was spiralling downwards into a pit of doubt, loathing and despair that Daisy herself knew all too well, and Daisy wasn’t sure who she should catch or how. 

Daisy sighed, and dropped from kneeling to sitting by Fitz’s leg. She could taste her own tears now, though it didn’t really feel like she was crying, but as she breathed in the salty bitterness she began to realise that she did, after all, feel relief. Of course they did not know what was coming. They never had – except once, and it was not as if that had ended well. And maybe this was a huge mountain to climb and they might be different people all over again by the time they got to the other side, but they were still people. They were still here. 

“Hey. Fitz,” Daisy said, her voice croaking with tears. “I’m not leaving you this time. Don’t you leave me either, okay?” 

He didn’t answer, but he was still holding her hand and he squeezed it a little, and Jemma sighed with relief and her hand appeared by Daisy’s side, and Daisy took it too, and while the powerful and unpredictable wheels of the world rolled on around them they sat together and relished survival and love and the long slow road out on which they could now begin to walk.


	55. Skye & May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Skye gets sick and tries to work through it, but May sees through it.  
> Fluff. Sick!fic. Set during S1. May & Skye/Daisy.

Skye had her task. She had her workspace – an old study that she had co-opted, and transformed into a nest of wires and monitors. She had a coffee as tall as her forearm was long and a box of tissues and a lemon she smelled whenever she needed a wakeup call. When desperate, she started slicing it up and sucking on lemon to keep herself alert. It was painful, and bad for one’s teeth, but effective. She’d been sick before, and she’d worked through it before. Eating had depended on it. Justice had depended on it. And she’d been the only one looking out for herself. She had system going. 

She had a system, and nobody bothered her. They had their own tasks and their own systems too. At first, this was a good thing, as her head was ringing and her dry eyes burned at the sight of the computer screen and she enjoyed being miserable alone. But eventually, the silence invited her heavy, stuffed head to nod slowly downward onto the desk and she felt herself shutting her eyes, no matter how hard she tried to keep them open. If she just had someone to nudge her shoulder, she thought, or to keep her alert with a dialogue that was more interesting than just watching search after search play out across her screen…

Skye gritted her teeth and forced herself into an upright position. She blew her nose until one tissue was useless, and then went through another just in case. She splashed her face with water and then rubbed it into her eye sockets, hoping to coax them into cooperating even though her body seemed intent on only producing fluid in all the wrong places. Then, holding the glass of water against her own forehead with one hand, she plugged the next search parameters in and then turned on some pounding music that jolted through the floor and into her heart. That would do the trick. It had to. 

-

She woke up… she didn’t know how much later, but enough that it took her a good few seconds to realise she was not in her bunk. She flinched. The computers. She twitched. The glass of water! 

Skye jolted awake, and though her posture rapidly sunk as soon as she was upright, she was grateful to find that the glass of water she had at some point put down or dropped, had been picked up. Belatedly, she thought to follow the hand that was now holding it, up to the face of the person who had woken her… or who had just been present for it, Skye couldn’t tell.

“May!” she yelped. “What are you doing here?” 

Though her whole body felt like it was made of clay, Skye’s heartbeat accelerated. Was she in trouble? Agents were not supposed to fall asleep at their desks. That wasn’t even in the handbook, it was just a given. Was she about to get fired from the best thing that had ever happened to her? Or maybe May was just about to give her an unpleasant talk. Or maybe, just stand there and stare judgmentally. 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I swear,” Skye clamoured, and almost tried to backtrack to _I mean, not_ asleep _asleep,_ but then she noticed that someone had switched her music off… that the search had completed (failed again, but that was to be expected)… that the glass of water in May’s hand was full. Skye frowned at it. “Wait – you aren’t going to tell me off?”

May’s shoulders twitched a little. A shrug? Skye considered it as May stepped forward and pressed the full glass of water into her hands. 

“You’re at your station.” 

“ _Asleep_ at my station,” Skye pointed out. 

“Resting at your station,” May corrected, “while still doing your job, and only dropping your guard in a situation where it is safe for you to do so.” 

“Wow. I like your version.” Skye smiled uncertainly. 

“Drink up,” May instructed. “And when you’re finished that, take this to your bunk and spend the next twelve hours on R&R.” 

May nudged a bowl of steaming chicken and vegetable soup that she must have brought in. Skye’s mouth watered, but though her fingers yearned to reach for it, she hesitated. 

“Are you sure?” she checked. “I mean, I can eat and work…” 

“Bed, Agent,” May instructed, all but pointing to the door. 

Skye took the soup gratefully and moved where directed, but she couldn’t help waiting for one last piece of advice. Something motivational and relevant and wise but a little cheesy – or at least, that’s how she imagined it in her cold-addled state. Something like “The best work you can do right now is take care of yourself.” She smiled at the thought. But May gave her no such thing. As Skye watched, May kept her eyes on the computer screen, unflinchingly focused, as it began running through new search parameters. Skye had been dismissed with no room for argument. There was no work for her to do. It made her heart sink a little at first – it felt like being replaced – but as she thought about it, it became obvious. This was May’s own way of telling her, in a way that she could deny having watched any movie ever, that the best work she could do was not here. It was sleeping, and soup, and maybe a heated rice pack… 

If she were being honest, Skye had to agree.


	56. Daisy & Jemma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: in the S3 finale, when Daisy breaks down after Lincoln's death, somebody goes to her.  
> Rshps: Daisy & Jemma, with many references to Static Quake & some to FitzSimmons.
> 
> Angst, with a little bit of hurt/comfort. Rated T. Content warning: gore/gore mention.
> 
> This could have been longer, but it rounded off nicely here. I hope you like it!

The sound and the sight of Daisy collapsing was like the death of a star; distant, somehow, for all its destruction. May and Coulson looked at each other, and Fitz and Jemma looked at each other, hearts clenched with the memories of when they had each last stood at the edge of this void; the grief unspeakable; the pain unreal. Daisy howled in agony, her voice choked and shredded by tears, and her mourning swept over the others like stormy waters, threatening to drown them if they broke from their bubbles of bitter comfort, of knowing that they had not quite been _there_ yet. 

Of course, the sound of their best friend in pain was enough to make them want to, _need_ to reach out and save her from those same waters, and so it was that Jemma hesitantly knelt by Daisy. Afraid of her own feelings, and afraid of Daisy lashing out, Jemma nevertheless stepped as close to the edge of the void as she could manage, and reached out a hand, and rested it on Daisy’s shoulder. 

Daisy howled again, but when Jemma did not leave, put one of her own hands over Jemma’s as if holding it there would soothe the pain. She was curled up against the counter, and her other hand clenched in a fist, and it was with tearful rage that she demanded: 

“What’s going to happen to him? Tell me.” 

Jemma glanced up at Fitz, whose eyes begged her not. Death in space was a gruesome affair and not something Daisy deserved put on her conscience.

“Daisy,” Jemma said, as soothingly as possible. “I really don’t think-“ 

She should have just lied. 

 _“TELL ME!”_ Daisy demanded, and the walls shook around them. _“TELL ME. AND DON’T LIE TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER BECAUSE I’LL KNOW.”_

Jemma felt her arm shake too, and almost snatched it away for fear of breaking it, except that Daisy calmed down again a little after that, breathing heavily and shaking herself instead. 

“Daisy, stop,” Jemma begged, trying to still her. “I’ll tell you. It’s just – it’s a nasty way to go, that’s all. I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

The soul-sucking hollowness of the eyes that looked back at her in that moment, were the eyes of someone who wanted to be hurt. Who thought she deserved the pain. Jemma felt a lance through her own chest and more tears started falling from her eyes, hot and stinging. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Daisy whispered, somehow commanding in all her grief. “If you do I’ll just look it up for myself.” 

Jemma’s eyes dropped. Hard as it was, her decision was already made. And she knew that she would appreciate the truth in such a situation. She glanced at Fitz again. Yes. She’d want the truth. She took a deep breath. 

“I don’t know exactly,” she confessed, and maybe this way she could curb the worst of it without lying. “But once exposed to the vacuum of space he would, um… well, he’d be unconscious after about fifteen seconds…” 

“But what would _happen?”_ Daisy pressed. Jemma squeezed her shoulder, and she squeezed back, fearing at the same time as relishing the pain that was about to come her way. 

“The difference in pressure would cause the lungs to expand and tear,” Jemma explained reluctantly, “and the fluid exposed to the elements – sweat and the like - would boil. But in the end…asphyxiation, after about ninety seconds. Then it would be over.”

Daisy nodded, over and over, and the strength and the rage flushed out of her and her hand dropped from Jemma’s and she curled up more and wept, almost soundlessly. Jemma readjusted her position, coming to sit beside Daisy and pressing the sides of their bodies together. Daisy’s shoulders were not so racked with sobs anymore, just shaking occasionally as the grief bled out of her. Jemma wrapped her arms around Daisy as best she could, and it was here, prepared for the long haul, that she remembered. She remembered that she still had Lincoln’s blood on her clothes, and she remembered Lincoln’s smile and the lively debates they’d had, and she remembered the snippets she’d learned of what Lincoln had been through and what he had wanted and all the lost possibility that Daisy was mourning, on top of the love for the person she had known. It was suffocating – almost unbearable – and it made Jemma all the more determined not to let go of Daisy. She’d sit right here for days, if she had to, she promised them both.

And, though at times more figurative than literal, that's exactly what she did until it was Daisy, instead, who pulled away.


	57. Fitz & Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "bi!Fitz and bi!Daisy finding out about each other's sexualities"  
> Set during 1x20/1x21-ish. Strong anti-Ward sentiment, some swearing. Hurt/comfort.

Today was the longest day ever, Skye decided. 

The sun was taking its time to set and she was taking her time to ignore the rest of the team before dinner – and even that, she was tossing up on. She sat by the pool, kicking her feet lazily in the water and watching the light refractions sway and bend. She hadn’t expected a California motel to be this dead, at this time of year, but she was glad for it as she drifted in the silence and her own thoughts. 

After a while, she was interrupted by a crunching sound - of ice or glass or gravel – and the appearance of a bottle of beer in the corner of her vision. She turned toward it hesitantly, and found that it was attached to a hand, and the hand was attached to Fitz. Pressing her lips together, Skye offered him what smile she could manage. 

“Come to crash my pity party?” she wondered. 

“If you’ll have me,” Fitz offered. Skye nodded at the patch of pavement beside her, and Fitz sat, and began unlacing his shoes. Skye almost felt like laughing; just as she almost felt like wrapping her arms around him - for her own comfort or for his, she wasn’t really sure. She settled for cracking the bottle open instead, and returned her attention to the gently swirling water before her. Fitz sat beside her in silence for a while, until he gently asked: 

“How’re you doing?” 

Skye sighed, long and deep and bitter, and scratched at the label on her bottle with a thumbnail. 

“I just feel so… fucking stupid,” she muttered. “I should have seen it. I don’t know how. I should’ve…” 

She shook her head, and Fitz hummed in sympathy.

“He’s a master spy, though,” he reminded her. “He’d have to be, or- or they wouldn’t have sent him. You’ve only just started learning all this stuff. We’ve been in it for years and didn’t bat an eyelid. Even May, and if May didn’t catch it, none of us had a snowflake’s chance. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I guess.” Skye snorted, laughing ruefully before taking a swig of her beer. “Still, I could have at least picked someone fucking _normal_ to – to -“ 

“Fall in love with?” Fitz suggested. 

“If only.” Smiling a little pitifully, she sighed again, and this time felt some weight actually leave her shoulders. “I always fall for fucking useless guys. I just never thought I’d go for that- Hydra- Nazi- _monster._ I feel like washing my whole _soul_ out with soap. Ugh. I just wish I could go back in time and pick someone else. Jemma, d’you think?” 

Fitz spluttered, choking on his beer, and Skye laughed a little; this time for real. 

“Shit, sorry!” She slapped him on the back as he recovered. “Guess that hadn’t come up, huh?” 

“Nah- no – it’s just –“ Fitz’s voice rasped, and he struggled to get it back under control. “It’s just – your boyfriend, I sort of assumed –“ 

Skye shook her head. “I’m bi. It’s a common mistake though, cause I do tend to go for guys.” 

“Me too.”  
  
Skye started before she could stop herself, and Fitz blushed.

“I mean – I don’t _go_ for guys, not really,” he explained. “I don’t go for anyone that much, to be honest. But I meant, I’m bi. I liked you. I liked…”

“Ward?” Skye met Fitz’s eyes with sympathy. “Fuck hot people, am I right? Man, if I ever figure out that soul soap, I’ll let you know.”  
  
“Thanks.” Fitz was still blushing, though, as he shook his head. “Honestly, I’m just glad he didn’t pick me. I don’t think I could’ve done what you did. That was bloody brilliant. Smart as hell, but I couldn’t have thought that fast. Or acted that well.” 

“Well, thanks, but shitting your pants really does a lot to get the old neurons firing. I think you’d surprise yourself, Fitzy-boy.” 

“I think I’d rather not get the chance to, if we’re being honest,” Fitz confessed. Skye grinned, and tapped the neck of his bottle with hers. 

“I’ll drink to that,” she declared. “No more adventures for a while, huh?”  
  
“If I ever have an adventure again, it’ll be too soon.” 

“Here here.”


	58. Fitz & Team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: the team's reaction(s) to finding out Fitz is bi.  
> Rshps: Fitz & Simmons, Daisy, Mack, Coulson May. Some bkgd FitzSimmons.

Fitz never really admitted it to himself, at first, that there was anything unusual about him. He had blinders on, happily ignorant to his own feelings about sex and dating and attractive people in general. Besides, he was a sixteen year old with a PhD, living off patents in a foreign country and attending one of the most prestigious academic institutions in the world. How it could be both prestigious and largely a secret was a question he never bothered to ask either. It was not as if he had nothing better to do. 

Jemma noticed it, because of course she did, but she kept her mouth shut. She was not that good at making friends – not real ones – and this one, she wanted to keep. He was too insecure, she thought, too pressured to conform, and apparently, quite happy not knowing. Not knowing that one of the boys from Aeronautical bought him drinks because he wanted a kiss. Not knowing that the way he lingered by the Ops field some mornings during strength training or as the drills were rehearsed was not something someone merely jealous or inspired would do. So Jemma kept her mouth shut. If he noticed, if he struggled to settle into his identity with the pressures of conformity on his back, she would help him. Until then, she figured, it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. 

If he went on some journey, though, he must have done it alone, because after a while he started noticing. He still wasn’t ready to define it as anything – in fact, the prospect was quite daunting – but one night, he confessed to her: 

“I like boys too.” 

She held his hand. 

“That’s okay,” she said. “Boys are cute. Some of them, anyway.” 

He screwed up his nose. That was around the time she’d broken up with Milton, and she’d been all too happy to let him rant, in her defense, about the cabbage-headed oaf she had, until recently, called a boyfriend. They spent the rest of the night talking about boys, and what made a good one, like Ahmed from Analytical Chemistry (or Anal Chem, as it inevitably became known), and what made a bad one, like Troy from… well, from a general rule, apparently, about guys named Troy. 

Daisy found out a heavier way. It was after all with Ward had been said and done – or so they’d thought – and the two of them had been sitting by the pool, when the words had spilled from his lips; a confession. He was glad, Fitz had said, that Ward had picked her instead of himself. Not glad for her pain, he’d insisted – of course, not that. But glad for the fact that Ward had chosen someone brave and clever enough to resist him, trap him, and possibly defeat him. She’d confessed in return, with a crush on Jemma no less, and the pair of them had sat and raised a toast, feeling just as strong in solidarity as they did sorry for themselves. 

As it turned out, the defeat of Ward had been shortlived, and after that, everything had changed. Fitz was different. Jemma was gone. Everyone else was there but not until this new man came along. Mack, he called himself. He was warm and supportive, and though they had uneasy moments, he didn’t talk down to Fitz or walk on eggshells around him and Fitz found that to be a vote of confidence, refreshing and reassuring in a sea of uncertainty and self doubt. Perhaps it was only natural, then, that Fitz attached himself to this figure of friendship and comfort. Perhaps it was only natural that he began to react to Mack’s strong presence and easygoing smile, and _dear Lord_ the muscles that shone with sweat while he worked. Sometimes Fitz found himself staring a little too long, a little too obviously – and sometimes, Mack noticed. 

Mack found him one day, took him aside, and Fitz was already blushing. He knew what this was about, but he couldn’t quite manage an explanation, or an apology, or anything. His brain seemed to want him to say _well, you’re hot,_ but he didn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.

“Hey, Turbo, I, ah-“ Mack didn’t usually get shaken. This wasn’t quite that, Fitz observed, just a little nervous. Awkward. Sort of amusing, because it was so unusual, but Fitz tried not to smile. Mack was clearly trying to be serious. 

“I’ve, ah, noticed the way you’ve been looking at me, sometimes,” Mack pointed out, “and I think maybe you might – you might like me. ‘S that true?” 

 _Well, you’re hot._

_Of course I like you, you’re my friend._

_Hot friend._  

Fitz bit his tongue, blushing furious red. He wanted to hide. He wanted to dig a hole in the ground and bury himself and never come out. His hands wanted something to do so that he wouldn’t hit himself upside the head for ruining this – this – the only thing he had. 

Mack nodded in understanding, and gently passed him an abandoned piece of cable. Fitz stretched and twisted it anxiously. 

“Don’t freak out, man, I’m cool with it,” Mack assured him. “I just wanted you to know that I don’t – I don’t swing that way, so, nothing’s going to happen. Just wanted to clear things up, so there’s no misunderstandings, okay?” 

Fitz nodded. There was still a sour taste in his mouth and he felt like crying. Everything was so overwhelming these days; he never seemed quite able to get used to it. He twisted the cable.

“Friend?” he mumbled hopefully. 

“Of course, man,” Mack promised cheerfully. “Sure, I’m still your friend. Come here.” 

With one big, strong arm, Mack pulled Fitz against him. Squashed rather unceremoniously against those muscles he’d admired (and probably would still admire on occasion; he was only a man) Fitz shifted his perspective. They were good for bear hugs too.

The most awkward, really, was Coulson - and even then it wasn’t half bad. 

It was during the interviews, trying to dredge up something about Ward. Fitz had confessed then what he had done to Daisy, a long time ago by then, and Coulson had looked up with a frown.

“You mean –“

“Yeah.” 

“But Jemma?”

“I know.” Fitz shrugged, but he sat up tighter, feeling his stomach twist. This was why he didn’t like spreading it around. “I like both, I guess.” 

“Right.” Coulson had noted it and after a while – perhaps after realising he was still frowning when he probably shouldn’t be – he wiped a smile across his face. “But Jemma the most, right?” 

Fitz, glad to relieve the tension, let his shoulders slump again. 

“Yeah,” he said, with a slightly dreamy smile. “Always Jemma the most.” 

It seemed only fitting, after that, that May find out too. It didn’t happen for some time; a year, perhaps. It was a loud night on base, as the Agents scrambled to celebrate Pride, seizing a rare night off in the face of so much tragedy that they were prepared to just tell their current reality to take a long walk off a short pier. Fitz had never been one for Pride, really, but the atmosphere was infectious, especially as Daisy and Jemma danced around him and draped him in a pink, purple and blue flag, with matching facepaint. They themselves were dressed up in absurd and garish colours, and he’d compromised with a white t-shirt, which they’d agreed to on the condition that they could bring water balloons, so that any colour flying around would stick. 

Daisy had asked May to take a photo of the three of them together, and May had just quietly fixed her eyes on him. She must have known about the girls already – they’d never felt the need to be particularly low-key about any of this – and her steady gaze was asking, _is this you?_ and _are you this?_ Protecting him as much from confessing his own insecurity to the girls as from vocally having to confirm or deny the answers to her questions. Fitz smiled a little, and nodded. 

In true May fashion, she simply nodded back, and took the shot. 


	59. Bus Kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daisy struggles with claustrophobia and FitzSimmons talk her through it.

The metal surface creaked beneath Daisy’s feet and she felt her heart leap, into her throat and back. Her body was trained enough not to lose her footing, but the smooth surface was not designed for guests, and the sea was murky and dark as it lashed around her. Water soaked her hair and clothes; icy air chilled her to the bone. Daisy’s teeth chattered and she swore to herself as she ground them together.

 _“Are you alright, Daisy?”_ Jemma wondered. 

“Fine,” Daisy hissed in response. “Just f- freezing. Where is this thing again?”

 _“There’s a hatch a few feet in front of you,”_ Fitz offered. _“You should be able to unscrew it from the outside and slip in, but be careful. The storm is interfering with our signal out here so we can’t be sure there’s nobody nearby.”_

Daisy nodded. “Right.” 

She’d take on fifty Russians if it meant she could get out of this blasted wind, but she was glad for Jemma’s warning and took care to be extra quiet as she dragged herself through the portal and onto the metal gangway of a submarine. Its inner workings were surprisingly warm and somewhere she could smell some kind of meat cooking, but she shook her head. This was an in-and-out operation. The storm had already delayed them long enough. 

Following FitzSimmons’ instructions, Daisy wandered down side passages, climbed ladders, ducked into stairwells, and hid between pipes; making her way through the submarine to – 

“I don’t see anything.” 

_“What’s there?”_

“A big wall with an E on it.”

 _“Is there a door?”_ Jemma suggested.

 _“We’re looking for a fuse box,”_ Fitz corrected. “ _Or maybe a vent? They’ve probably hidden it somewhere.”_

“They’re not gonna have vents on a submarine, dummy,” Daisy pointed out, but she looked around all the same. Above her, there was a trapdoor. 

 _Confined space,_ it warned, in bright yellow. Daisy took a deep breath. 

“I think I found it.”

 _“Go, go!”_ Fitz insisted. _“We don’t have all night.”_

The submarine creaked, apparently in agreement, and Daisy reached for the hatch, dragged it open, and pulled herself up. It took some manoeuvring; she couldn’t stand up in here, and had to drag herself along on her stomach like a snake. What was this place? 

“D’you see me?” Daisy asked. “What is this?” 

 _“What’s where?”_ Jemma wondered. “ _It looks like you’re floating. This isn’t in the plans.”_

“That’s good news then, I guess,” Daisy replied. “If I was going to hide a mystery detonator, a mystery crawlspace is where I’d-“ 

She cut herself off as footsteps clanged through her field of hearing. She scrambled for the hatch and hauled it closed as the footsteps passed beneath her, and once they were gone, she let out a breath. 

“Crisis averted,” she reported, in a proper whisper this time. “I’m A-OK. Resuming search for the detonator.” 

The submarine groaned again and Daisy’s heart thudded, too loud in the tiny space. She felt around, carefully but blindly, for the detonator until her hand wrapped around it and then, hugging it to herself protectively so she couldn’t knock it – they didn’t think it was armed yet, but she didn’t want to find out the hard way – she wriggled back toward the hatch. 

And realised she’d pulled it closed. 

The sound of rushing water made her jump. Her first thought: make sure she’d shut the outer hatch. From memory, she had. She was good at that, apparently. 

 _“Oh – oh, that’s… not good,”_ Fitz muttered. 

“What? What’s not good?” 

 _Door’s closed door’s closed door’s closed._ Her legs burned with the desire to kick it open, but there was no leverage, no angle, no space. The roof was almost touching her back, and the more she thought about it, the more it felt like it was pushing down, crushing her slowly.

_Can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe._

She gulped the foul-smelling air and tried to focus on Jemma's voice.

“Get _out of there, Daisy,”_ Jemma insisted. _“It’s the storm – it looks like they’re going down to weather it.”_

“G-going down?” 

The water. It filled up those tank things, didn’t it, to make a submarine sink? (Her lungs were filling up. Can't breathe. Can't breathe.)

 _“It’ll take a little while,”_ Fitz assured her. _“You’ve still got a few minutes to make it back to the hatch.”_

A few minutes. Daisy squeezed her eyes shut. 

“Guys,” she breathed, her voice rasping. “I’m stuck. I shut – I shut the hatch, I didn’t know. I’m stuck in this crawlspace thing.” 

 _“There should be an emergency release,”_ Fitz pointed out. _“Can you swivel around and try and find it? It should be near or on the hatch door.”_

“Okay. Okay. Swivelling.”

She kept the precious detonator close. Fortunately, while the crawlspace was flat, it was quite wide, so with some manoeuvring, Daisy pointed herself back at the hatch. She felt around.

 _“It’s okay, Daisy,”_ Jemma assured her. “ _They haven’t refuelled yet so they won’t leave this port. We’re not going to lose you.”_

“Okay. Good.” Daisy nodded to herself, feeling in truth, more than a little hysterical. “Just a few hours underwater in a storm, trapped in an enemy submarine. I can deal with that.” 

 _“Submarines are very well-designed, Daisy,”_ Fitz promised. _“They can withstand thousands of pounds of pressure. A pissy little storm can do what it likes; a fully crewed submarine in harbour isn’t going to bat an eyelid. You’re perfectly safe. Don’t panic.”_

“Yeah, okay but how do I get out?” Daisy asked. “Do we – do we have somebody on the sub?”

 _“Um… no,”_ Fitz said.

 _“Sit tight though,”_ Jemma assured her, in the most stiff-upper-lip tone she could muster. _“Coulson’s checking with some ex-Navy personnel, seeing if they know anything else you can try.”_

“Well if there’s nothing, I’m blasting this thing open.” 

 _“Don’t do that until you have an exit plan,”_ Fitz ordered firmly. _“The alarms will go haywire. You’re gonna need to wait until you can get out.”_

“Okay. Sitting tight, I guess.”

 _"Just breathe, Daisy,"_  Jemma reminded her. "You've _got all the time in the world, but you need to keep your head screwed on, so breathe. In...two...three..."_

Daisy took a deep, slow breath and screwed up her nose as she let it out. _Please don’t let that be the last thing I ever smell._ (So what, she wasn’t going to die in here. Being dramatic helped her feel calm and helped her mind hold the walls out where they were meant to be instead of creeping closer – closer –)

Escaping the mind-bending panic, Daisy closed her eyes and turned her consciousness inside her own body instead.

She swore quietly. 

 _“Still good?”_ Fitz checked. 

“Yeah, I just picked a great time to need the bathroom. It’s fine, it’s under control.” She gritted her teeth.

 _“Shut up then,”_ Fitz warned her. _“If they hear you, we’re in trouble.”_

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Daisy pouted. She really did need the toilet, and all the water around the place was not helping. It was a distraction from the tiny tiny space she was now trapped in, and the invisible pressure on her lungs, but there was precious little else to do, or to think about, and the more she thought about it, the worse it got.

“Look, talk to me,” Daisy hissed.

_“What?”_

“Tell me a story or something, I don’t care. Or I’m gonna lose my mind in here.” 

She held her breath as somebody walked beneath. They stopped. Her heart raced. They continued and she relaxed again as Jemma started talking in her ear. She was explaining about Pluto, and why it had been discounted as a planet. Knowing that Daisy was defensive of the little rock, Fitz jumped in and steered the conversation toward Jupiter’s moons, and they bandied back and forth - Haley’s comet, Beetlejuice, Planet X – until the submarine groaned and a rush of water brought Daisy back to the present. 

 _“Looks like you’re coming up!”_ Fitz cheered. 

“Oh, sweet, I am _out_ of here.” 

Gritting her teeth, Daisy popped the hatch, jumped to the ground, and ran. Hell-for-leather, single-minded, she sprinted toward her escape. Jemma threw her quick instructions, supplementing the memory map she’d made in her mind, and Daisy tossed a few unfortunate sailors out of her way as the submarine breached the surface. She wrestled the hatch open and threw herself into the ocean, glad to breathe the open air at long last even though the frigid, salty water gulped her up soon enough. She found the shore and swum toward it more eagerly than she ever had in her life. Hands reached out and pulled her up and though her first instinct was to fight them off she knew who they must be.

“Got you,” Jemma assured her, wrapping a thick blanket around Daisy’s shoulders. From inside it, like a little fragile baby bird, Daisy revealed the detonator she’d brought with her. Fitz took it, examined it briefly, and nodded his approval. 

“Team’s here,” he said. “Round the corner. Coulson’s got a space heater, and the most open space we could find still out of the wind. We figured you wouldn’t want to get back in the van anytime soon.” 

Daisy nodded, starting to shiver. She pulled the blanket closer around her, and looked up at the sky. There were still plenty of clouds, but between them, stars shone through.

“How long was I down there?”

“About three hours.” 

“Geez.” Her knees quivered and dropped, but FitzSimmons didn’t let her fall. 

“Come on,” Jemma encouraged. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

"Sure. Can we drop by a bathroom first?"


	60. Daisy & Coulson & May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Daisy is reckless on a mission and endangers herself; Coulson and May scold her to hide their worry.  
> Set in no particular time, but early S4 in sentiment.  
> Rshps: Daisy & Coulson, Daisy & May

They ran on each other’s heels as bullets pinged off the scaffolding around them. Coulson jumped down first, and though he landed a little heavier than he used to, it didn’t stop him pulling the pistol from his belt and covering the others as best he could. Considering how fast and hard the day had gone downhill, Fitz and Simmons were doing a very good job of not audibly freaking out on the other end of the comms line, but as May jumped and rolled to land by Coulson, Fitz exclaimed – 

_“Daisy, no!”_

The scaffolding creaked and groaned, and the shooting became sporadic and soon ceased, as shooters ran, confused or endangered or both. Daisy still hadn’t followed May down, and after peering through the bars, Coulson thought he might have got a glimpse of her, braced between two pillars. Bringing the place down around herself. 

“She waited ‘til I was clear,” May muttered. Then, into the comms she hissed: “Daisy, get out here, now.” 

“I’m sorry,” Daisy said, and then the sound of screeching metal drowned her out.

-

Fortunately, whether it was from self-preservation kicking in or just a natural consequence of being the epicentre of the quake, Daisy was relatively unharmed in the end. She was battered and bruised, of course, but bringing half a factory of steel beams and grate flooring down on oneself was bound to leave a mark. Daisy was stuck in the med bay for hours, feeling quite sorry for herself as she waited for her concussion assessment to pass. Her scratches were taped, her arms bandaged, and her head pounding – not just from the exertion, or the near-deafening noise of the implosion, but also from anticipation. The miserable anticipation of her concerned pseudo-parents who, she could now see, were just about to be let inside.

“Agent Johnson?” one of the medical staff checked through the speaker. “Agents May and Coulson to see you.” 

“Let them in.” Daisy waved them through, and the staff member opened the door. Both Coulson and May seemed… itchy; Coulson more so, but it was disproportionately unsettling to see May shaken.

“Daisy,” she demanded. “What the hell was that back there?”

“I was covering you,” Daisy insisted. “Is that not what we do anymore?” 

“There was no need to do it like _that,”_ May snapped. “It was a non-lethal situation.” 

“Pretty sure it turned lethal when they pulled their guns on us,” Daisy retorted. “They shot first, alright? I was just looking out for my team.” 

“We could have gotten out of there and you know it,” May growled. 

“And what about us having your back, hm?” Coulson added. “I know you’ve been having fun playing lone wolf, Daisy, but you’re part of a team now! You have to tell us what you’re planning so we can back your play!” 

“Look, I’m _sorry,_ okay?” Daisy threw her hands up. “I was just trying to take out the bad guys, any way I could.” 

“Sure, and while we were trying to figure that out, May and I were sitting ducks!” Coulson pointed out. “You have comms for a reason. You have _team mates_ for a _reason._ We _all_ share the load. We share the fight. If you want to be out in the field like this, Daisy, we need to see that.” 

Daisy scoffed. “You’re grounding me?” 

“Not if you start acting like an adult,” May corrected. “And an Agent. You know better than this, Daisy.” 

“And we can’t afford to lose you to another stunt like this,” Coulson finished. “So shape up or ship out, soldier.”

He glared at her, and Daisy felt her lips tugged all of a sudden with the urge to cry. Usually, she would fall back on defensiveness, upon feeling the keen sting of disapproval. Right now, though, her eyes burned. Her face flushed. 

_We can’t afford to lose you._

She knew what he meant. Not just the mission or the organisation – she was certainly a valuable asset, but Daisy knew Coulson meant more than that. So did May. So did the rest of the team; the family; the connection that she had been denying herself for so long. It was not the fear of disapproval that choked up her throat, but the knowledge that she’d hurt and scared the people that loved her. It was a new and visceral feeling, and Daisy lowered her head. 

“Yes sir,” she agreed. “I’ll shape up. Just don’t – please don’t take me out of the field. I need to be doing something, or I just feel…” 

She couldn’t find the words for that kind of ache. Her eyes flickered from Coulson to May, whose expression had momentarily softened. She got it. But when Daisy looked at her, she straightened and pressed her lips together. She nodded brusquely.

“Drink your water,” she instructed. “Come to the conference room for debrief when they let you go.” 

She seemed a little discomfited by her own vulnerability, to Daisy bit back a self-flagellating quip about how eager May seemed to leave. She even offered a rueful smile to Coulson as he paused in the doorway. With an expression matching hers, Coulson looked back at Daisy. After a moment, he pulled a chocolate bar from his pocket, showed it to her, and set it down, before continuing on his way without a word.


	61. Bus Kids & May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: May & FitzSimmons start to bond over their mutual dislike of coffee.  
> Set S1. Fluffy. G.  
> Rshps: May & FitzSimmons, Bus Kids, Bus Team (minus Ward)

Jemma laughed, as Fitz reshuffled his lanky legs in the tight space the backseat allowed them, for the third time. 

“Are you quite alright there?” she asked. 

“Fine!” he insisted, grumpier than usual. “Just… for ‘field work’ there don’t seem to be many ‘fields’ involved, that’s all. ‘f I wanted to be sitting around in stake-outs all day I’d join the ruddy police.”

“Or become a clown,” Skye suggested. 

She snorted with laughter as, desperate to get a proper stretch, Fitz stuck one of his legs between the two front seats – in the space over the handbrake and gearbox – and began flexing his ankle enthusiastically. 

“Um, Fitz,” Jemma muttered. “I don’t think you should –“

“What?” he challenged. “D’you want me to get deep vein thrombosis? Because that’s what’s happening otherwise.”

“No, of course not,” Jemma insisted. “It’s just –“

It was just that she hadn’t missed May’s stern face in the rear view mirror. She was certain that May was judging her; judging them, for their immaturity. No doubt as the Cavalry, she’d been on some missions that required an extraordinary sense of control over one’s body. Of stillness. Missions where sticking one’s leg across the length of an entire car was not just poor form, but a deadly mistake. 

Of course, as usual, what she thought was unclear, but May’s gaze did not flinch from the mirror, though she must have known that they were reading into it. _What_ they were reading into it. She hated them bringing it up, so they stayed silent, but – appropriately chagrined, and with some difficulty – Fitz drew his leg back into the back seat and muttered an apology.

It was at this moment that Coulson appeared from back across the street.

“Target’s getting coffee so I am too. Anybody want anything?” 

“Americano?” Skye requested.

“Sure?” Coulson checked. “Shield’s buying.”

Skye shrugged. “I said what I said.”

Coulson nodded, and pointed his finger to commit the order to memory.

“One Americano,” he recited, and moved his finger to Jemma. “Anything for you?” 

“Um, do they have tea? I don’t mind which kind, just, preferably brewed, not bagged.”

Coulson grimaced, unconvinced.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he promised. “Otherwise I hear they do a great wheatgrass?” 

“Okay.”  
  
“And you, Fitz?” 

“Tea please. Black. Or nothing. Unless we have a better bathroom situation than last time.”

Coulson shook his head, sympathetic. 

“Okay. One Americano, one tea-or-wheatgrass, one tea-or-nothing…. and Melinda, might I interest you in the holiday special, mint spice frappuccino with pieces of candy cane?” 

He took one look at May’s glare and grinned.

“And one ‘go to hell,’” he finished. “Got it.”

He disappeared to fetch the coffee, and if Jemma was not mistaken, May snorted. 

“Well,” May said. “That’s one sensible decision you two have made today.” 

“The tea?” Jemma checked. “Oh, no, we don’t care for coffee at all really. You can take the Brit out of Britain I suppose….” 

Skye snorted.

“Sure.” She elbowed Fitz. “I saw this one salivating over Coulson’s last offer. He’d sell his soul to coffee for a little good ol’ fashioned whipped cream.” 

Fitz scoffed. 

“I’ll have you know that’s _hardly_ a coffee,” he retorted indignantly. “It’s practically cream with a little flavour! And you can get it with icecream.” 

“Fitz!” Jemma gasped. “You’ve _had_ that thing? Inside your body?”

“Yeah he has.” Skye made a suggestive expression, and Fitz kicked her as best he could from the given angle. All the while, Jemma was beginning an educative rant about the calories, the sugar and fat and Fitz’s diet more generally, and Skye didn’t pause the burgeoning skirmish to cry: 

“Don’t bring Little Debbie into this!”

They squabbled even as Coulson climbed into the car a few minutes later, tray of coffees in hand. Unfazed by the ruckus in the back seat, he and May watched the target cross the street in front of them, Ward on his tail, and Coulson passed the tray of drinks over.

“How’s it going?” he asked calmly. “Did you tell them the espresso machine story?”

“I don’t tell stories.” 

“To bad, I do. Hey, guys!” 

Coulson leaned his head over the back seat. Immediately, the younger three stopped fighting and sat to attention. 

“Yes!” Skye cheered. “Hit me with the caffeine, AC!” 

“You’re gonna have to fight May for it,” he deflected. 

“Keep your damn legs still for the next five minutes and I’ll hand it over,” May promised. After a chorus of ‘yes ma’am’s she begrudgingly handed out the drinks – teas first, and then Skye’s coffee only after Coulson had announced that they needed to move the stakeout van after all.

“Oh yeah,” Fitz remarked with a snort. “Ward’s still out there tailing. Poor sod.” 

“Get better at keeping to your damn self and you could be out there too, you know,” May remarked. Startled, Fitz and Simmons shared a glance. May could see Coulson was just about busting a vein trying not to grin at her – he’d always known she’d get attached – but she decided to lean into it anyway. 

“I’m just saying,” she clarified. “You have the makings of good agents, all of you. Some of you even have good taste.”

(Skye laughed and raised her Americano in salute to herself. “Burn.”)

“And I think if you knuckled down and put the work in you really could make it into the… ‘actual field,’ one day.” 

Fitz shook his head profusely. 

“Oh, no thank you. I’ll take a little thrombosis over a bullet to the head any day.”

The van drove over a bump, sloshing his tea, and Fitz cursed.  
  
“Oh, Fitz,” Jemma sighed, and passed her cup to him as she began to search for a piece of tissue or fabric to soak up the spill.

May rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the road ahead. They had a long way to go.


	62. Fitz & Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Skye comforts Fitz / Fitz & Skye comfort each other when Jemma jumps in 1x06  
> Fitz & Skye/Daisy, Bus Kids. I don't mind what ships you wanna read into it but it's basically canon compat. Science is 90% B.S.

The others leapt into action and Fitz felt like he should be helping only, his body and his mind and his tongue and his hands seemed detached from each other. Over and over he saw her fall – or did she jump? Over and over he heard the scream rip from his throat. Felt the pain all over his body as it physically refused to do what he demanded of it, as Ward pulled the chute away, and Fitz was left drifting. 

Vaguely, he became aware that he was no longer vertical. Was he lying? Kneeling? Did it matter? His body was disintegrating, blowing away in the wind like Jemma had. So far out of reach. So impossibly beyond his worst nightmares. 

“Fitz?” 

A hand squeezed his shoulder, trying to pull him to his feet. 

“Fitz, come on, let’s get away from there. Let’s get – “ 

Skye’s whole body was shaking, even as Fitz staggered after her, away from the door. He could barely put one foot in front of the other and she couldn’t blame him. Her own heart was racing so quickly she could feel it jolting her whole body as if it were trying to gallop out of her ribcage. It was beating so fast she felt sick. The plane was spinning. The sound of the air rushing past outside was dizzying. 

Then they stepped into the hallway and the sound almost seemed to disappear. 

Just like that? 

Was it that easy for Jemma to be – gone?

No, not gone. Ward had jumped after her. She might not be dead. 

“The rat’s alive,” Fitz whispered hoarsely. “She was going to be okay. She was going- “

Skye nodded, finding his ramblings oddly comforting as her own mind was starting to spark wildly out of control. She hauled him down to the kitchen as he tried to get a grip on his sentences, and found her breathing start to steady as she felt him cycle back down through the stages of panic, from near-catatonic to merely… 

Well, as good as one might expect for someone who’s best friend of nearly ten years just jumped out of an aeroplane believing they were going to die. 

“You two okay?”  
  
Skye was so startled by May’s question that she simply nodded. They must be real wrecks if May was asking that. But before she could psychoanalyse it too much, May darted off again, a woman on a mission – no doubt working with Coulson to get Jemma back. Because either way, they were going to get her back.

(Skye swallowed hard. She’d never seen a dead body before. She wasn’t keen to start now.)

“Ward can do it,” Fitz stated, nodding and rubbing his knuckles with a little too much frequency to be confident, but Skye would take it. “He’ll catch her. He can do it. He’s got the antidote and he’ll save her. He will.” 

“I’m sure he will,” Skye agreed. “And isn’t it an anti-serum?” 

Fitz snorted, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“What’s the difference?” Skye asked. 

“I don’t know. One’s for poison, one’s for viruses. Something like that.” Fitz shook his head. “All I know is, it worked. We did it. And then she -“ 

He choked up again, unable to wipe the vision from behind his eyes. Skye put a hand on his shoulder and bit her lip, watching tears fall from Fitz’s eyes and desperately trying to control her own. She wanted to get up and go help, but she knew she’d be useless in this state. She wasn’t even sure her legs would still work now that she’d sat down. All she could think was that just a few hours ago she’d been laughing at FitzSimmons’ funny voices as they imitated Ward, and Fitz’s squeamishness, and Jemma’s unflinching curiosity of all things squirm-inducing. She’d been really starting to like it here. Figures. 

“Skye?” Fitz asked, still not quite daring to creep louder than a whisper. “Would you like a hug?” 

When Skye realised she couldn’t even see Fitz, from how full with tears her eyes had become, she nodded. She took a deep breath and Fitz folded her into his arms as if he could keep her safer than he had kept Jemma. Yet his touch was not possessive. It made her feel warm. She told herself that Jemma would soon be getting the same warm embrace, and it would put colour back in her cheeks, after a cold ocean-air voyage. The universe would not deny them that, surely. 

“Look alive, people!” Coulson called, clanking down the steps. “I need all hands on deck. Space blanket. Water bottles. Heat packs. Orange juice. Jellybeans. Go.” 

Realising, a little belatedly, that he must be talking to them, Fitz and Skye released each other. Skye wiped her eyes, and tried to smile reassuringly. Action was good; action meant recovery.

“Why the jellybeans?” she prompted, and slowly her realisation began to dawn in Fitz’s eyes too. His mind, jumbled from the shock, was still a few steps behind, and his face still reddened and streaked with tears, but he smiled as he stood. In fact, he beamed. 

“Blood sugar,” he whispered. “Come on. She’s alive.”


	63. Fitz & Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also posted in [Skimmons Drabbles & Ficlets ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5864041/chapters/27060177) (romantic & platonic Skimmons)  
> Prompt: Daisy first realises she has a crush on Jemma and Fitz is there as a supportive friend.  
> Focus on the brotp: Fitz & Daisy with strong/many references to Skimmons/Bioquake ofc. Coffee Shop AU bc it's the best AU I don't make the rules.

Fitz’s stomach was growling by the time Daisy finally made her way, in drifting and stumbling steps, back to the table where he was waiting. She had her head turned over her shoulder, not watching where she was going, and all but stumbled into the table before she realised where she was. And how long she’d been staring back at the cashier, and the little glint of her silver necklace the way her blonde hair tickled the back of her neck as she made the next coffee and – 

“Shit.” Blushing furiously, Daisy pulled her head in. Rampant thoughts scattered through her mind of flowers and kisses and a dog for some reason and a kitchen that was way nicer than hers and bare skin and – 

And then Fitz ruined by taking a loud, slurping gulp of his milkshake. 

“Took you long enough,” he cursed, but sighed with satisfaction as Daisy finally remembered to unload her cargo, and Fitz got his hands on the ham and cheese toastie he’d ordered nearly fifteen minutes ago. “Are you alright? You look warm. Should we move over to the window?” 

“No! Nah. I mean. I’m fine. Just – strong coffee, that’s all.” 

Fitz frowned. Daisy was an indiscriminate coffee drinker, just as likely to dump a handful of instant coffee in whatever mug she could find or empty a can of whipped cream into a frappe as she was to order a neat cappuccino with baby marshmallows or biscuits on the side. Strong coffee? Not likely. Nevertheless, no other explanation immediately came to mind so he let the topic go and they moved on to food and movies and video games and the afternoon whiled away.

Unfortunately for Daisy though, her confusing ordeal was not over yet. This was their regular café, and the new girl – so attractive Daisy seemed to forget how to speak around her – seemed to be there every day. Every meal. Every tiny smile as she rung up paninis and muffins and coffee and cola and Daisy really did not have the budget for this, but gradually she realised she was dragging Fitz more and more often to the same table and that maybe she was giving off the impression that this was their table and that they were a  _they_ and not that it mattered but it kind of did but why did she care all of a sudden… and it was when she looked down at the coffee she hadn’t ordered – it was the girl, Jemma, she had just known – that Daisy realised what it all meant. The flushed cheeks. The domestic daydreams, and the not so domestic ones. The need for Jemma not to think that she and Fitz were together. To keep the door open. To allow for the possibility… 

“Oh… my god,” she whispered. 

“What?” Fitz looked up from the design he was doodling on her napkin, and frowned at her unusually pale cheeks. Daisy bit her lip, but there was nothing for it now. She couldn’t talk about it to anyone else. Fitz was the only one who knew her well enough. The only one she felt like trusting. The only one she didn’t feel completely foolish, confessing to about anything… even if it did seem ridiculous… or did it? Or… 

“Y’know Jemma?” Daisy began. A smile touched Fitz’s lips. 

“Oh yes. Jemma. Jemma Anne Simmons. She’s just moved here from England and she’s on a working visa and she wants to see the Grand Canyon so she’s saving up but it’s hard because rent here is so expensive. That Jemma?” 

Daisy blushed. It had been her that had parroted all this to him. Another sign, perhaps, that she was more interested than normal? “Maybe.” 

“Then yes, I’m familiar. Go on.” 

“Well… I think I might…” Daisy took a deep breath.  _Here goes._ “Like her.  _Like her_ like her. You know, like…  _like_ her.”

Daisy’s fingers dug into the coffee cup so tensely she might have worried about tearing it, if she’d thought of such a thing. Her eyes searched Fitz’s face for a reaction. He frowned a little at first, but not in disapproval. It was more like… exploration. Reflection. As if realising that this all made sense. 

“How do you know?” he wondered. 

“I don’t know, haven’t you ever liked someone before? It’s just – it, y’know, you like them. And you want to be with them and hear their voice and learn everything there is about them because they’re pretty and nice and funny and – Jemma’s funny isn’t she? Probably. She’s probably funny.” 

“Okay, I think that’s enough coffee for you.” Fitz pried it out of her hands, and Daisy rapped her nails on the table and rocked from foot to foot. She couldn’t help a glance back over her shoulder, at Jemma, and since it was a quiet moment, Jemma smiled and waved. Daisy waved back, and squeaked, and hid again, and when she saw Fitz smirk she glared.

“Shut up, asshole,” she hissed. 

“No, it’s not that,” Fitz protested. “Although – for the record, you  _are_ adorable – it’s just… I think you have more of a chance than you think.”

“More of a  _what?”_

“Well, first of all, Jemma just tucked her hair behind her ears for the third time in the last two minutes… and second of all…”

Fitz slid the coffee cup back toward Daisy, and turned it around, so that her name, and a phone number faced her. Daisy gaped at it.

“That’s not – that’s not my number.” 

“No, it is not,” Fitz agreed, waiting for the implication to settle in. Daisy gaped. Blinked. 

“Should I… should I text her? No, right? She’s at work. And I don’t –“ she scoffed dismissively. “I mean, I don’t want to lead her on. I don’t even know what this is, really.” 

“Then find out.” 

Fitz nodded, but not at Daisy. Daisy frowned, and turned. Was he talking to Jemma? But her brain hardly had time to jump from one thought to next before her phone buzzed. Instinctively, she pulled it out, and read the text in the notification. 

 _I get off at 2._  

Daisy danced before she could think about it. Fitz smiled, and hitched his bag onto his shoulder. 

“I’ve got to get back to the grind,” he said. “Tell me where it goes. I mean, not all the way, just – let me know, okay? Good luck.” 

“Good luck!” Daisy replied. “I mean. Thanks. Will do.”

She waved, and he waved, and left, and she looked back down at her phone as the clock ticked over from 1:59 to 2:00. She felt a little thrill in her chest. Then she realised there was somebody standing behind her. She turned. 

“Hi.” Jemma blushed, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“Hi.” Daisy bit her lip for a moment. “So I, uh. I would have brought you to this great coffee place I know but… who wants to go on a date at work, right?” 

“Here here.” Jemma pursed her lips. It was true, but it did require more effort be put in, and they were only at the beginning. 

“Have you had lunch?” Daisy offered. 

“Actually, no,” Jemma confessed. 

“Do you like burritos?” 

Jemma’s stomach rumbled before she could answer. She laughed, and Daisy grinned at it, before dropping her payment on the table and gesturing to the door that led the way out. 

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” she agreed proudly. “Don’t worry, I know a place.”


	64. Simmons & Mack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "renewal" (from [AOS Advent 2017](https://aosadvent2017.tumblr.com/post/168150228598/aosadvent2017-banner-by-the-wonderful#notes))  
> *CONTAINS VAGUE S5 PREMIERE SPOILERS*  
> Jemma escapes the clutches of Kasius and Mack helps her get the scent of control off her. Jemma & Mack, with some platonic Skimmons bc why not. TW for blood & minor self harm. No sexual content (even from Kreepius)

She’s not sure exactly what it is – why it is that moment that she snaps. Perhaps it is nothing more than opportunity after a period of depression. That is, after all, when most rebellions happen. 

Whatever the reason though, the moment is the moment. Jemma seizes a rose in her hand – as tightly as she can, and so swiftly she hardly has time to cry out from the pain before she rips it from the tree. Kasius turns, horrified and unsure what to do. Should he kill her? Probably, by his own logic, but that won’t help him understand. Why would she wilfully injure herself, wilfully diminish her perfection in his eyes? Why would anyone want to destroy such a masterpiece? 

“Put – put that down,” he orders, the air in his voice scraped by anger and confusion. “The blood will come off, my love, I’m sure.” 

Jemma snarls. This time, she knows what it is. It’s _my love_ and the way those words grate through her. The bloody rose she is holding, she thinks, makes a grand symbol that Kasius in all his theatrics should appreciate, and there’s a scar she thought she’d have forever from Maveth that had finally, apparently, faded into nothing. 

Too bad. 

She scrapes the rose down her forehead; narrowly missing her eye, slicing through the old Maveth scar with relish. 

Horrified, Kasius gapes at her, and Jemma feels a sadistic grin light her face. She can taste the blood on her lips and it only makes her smile wider. She has ruined his perfection, ruined his control, and the sound has come rushing in. Even the sound of her own voice, as she challenges: 

“What are you going to do about it?”

Of course, this cuts through Kasius’ rage as he sees that she is not something to be pitied or protected; she is no longer his art. She is trouble. Fortunately for him though, nobody has managed to yet outrun the Spheres. 

“Sinara!” he calls. _“SINARA!”_

But there is no answer, only a voice that he does not recognise.

_“Jemma, GET DOWN!”_

It takes him a moment to remember who Jemma is. His trouble has brought trouble with her – and, apparently, is smart enough to duck below a table when her friends order it, not waste another moment staring as the windows around them shatter. 

Glass crunches underfoot as their newest arrival steps into the doorway. 

“Quake,” she says. “I think you’ve heard of me.”

Her eyes search the room for Jemma, and though a flicker of concern passes through them she keeps her stance hard, and nods to the empty space beside her. 

Jemma runs. 

She runs as fast and as hard as she ever has but it feels like she’s slipping. She has no direction, and there’s blood in her eyes – in her mouth – on her hands. It’s under her feet for all she knows but she hasn’t fallen yet so she runs, putting as much distance between herself and the bodies behind her as she can. The team is here. She’s safe now; even though she can’t see them, she knows that Daisy, May and Coulson are closing the gap she has left in her wake, weapons raised. There’s no way she can turn and fight now, so she runs – 

Until she slams into a brick wall that catches her. Not a wall at all, but Mack; his arms snap closed around her and he scoops her out of the way of the conflict, turning into her momentum until it disappears and she is left trembling, exhausted and terrifed, but safe in his embrace. By his coaxing she puts one foot in front of the other until he’s herded her around the corner, out of the fight. 

“Hey, Jemma, are you with us?” he asks, trying as hard as he can to look into her eyes. She nods, and all but weeps at the sound of his voice. She’d been beginning to think she’d never hear anything again. 

“What did they do to you?” Mack wondered, his fingers going to her head until she bats him away. 

“That was me- I did that,” she manages tearfully. “I didn’t want him to touch me any more.” 

She crosses her arms, hiding her wrists, which all of a sudden feel itchy and wrong, and then she feels it on her face. Her clothes. His control is all over her. 

(She breathes, listening to the sound of it; listening to the sound of the fighting around the corner; listening to Mack, and she reminds herself that she is free.) 

“Okay, well let’s clean the blood, alright? There’s got to be a washcloth around here somewhere.” 

“No, you should go,” Jemma insists, seeing Mack glance back toward the fight. 

“Nah,” he says. “They’ve got this handled. Come on.” 

To her, it was only a glance, but upon examination the shotgun axe has disappeared; in Elena’s hands now as the battle continues – on the one hand, to bring Kasius down and on the other, to inch along the hallway, into the dingy cafeteria. Mack pours a pot of water and it’s probably not clean but it’s as clean as they’re going to get, so he sets to work. 

“Thank goodness you arrived when you did,” Jemma said. “I was beginning to think I hadn’t thought this through.”

Mack snorts. “Clawing your own eye out?”

“I was never going to blind myself.” She shakes her head. “I was just – sick of him watching me. Like I wasn’t real. I was even starting to believe it a little myself, I think. Then all of a sudden, something clicked and I realised, if he didn’t want me anymore then I would be safe.”

“Sure, except for the Balls of Death and the guns and the fact that we're living Snowpiercer: Space Edition.” 

“Yeah. Except for those things.” A smile touches her lips briefly, and Mack smiles back, glad to see her panic beginning to subside. “How’d you do it?”

“I grabbed a rose.”

“That asshole has roses? Figures.” 

“And chocolate, and fruit, and gold,” Jemma continues, a distracted cloud shadowing her eyes as she reflects; “Lots and lots of gold.”

Mack huffs. He has thoughts on the matter, but he figures Jemma probably already agrees, so he dips the material back into the water and wipes at Jemma’s skin again. He frowns. 

“’s not coming off.” 

“Boil it,” Jemma commands. 

“You sure?” 

Mack doesn’t need a verbal answer. The hardness in Jemma’s eyes tells him that if they don’t try something soon she’s going to claw every millimetre of gold off herself with her bare hands. As it is, she’s in such a hurry to get it off that she nearly pours boiling water over the both of them, and hisses in pain at the heat of the water on her face. 

“Wait,” Mack insists, “just steam it for a –“ 

But she’s already scrubbing so vigorously it’s as if her face is on fire and this is the only way of putting it out. When she finally surfaces, gasping for breath, her skin is red – but at least it is not gold – and her mind is clear, even as the tears finally start to leak down. 

Mack pulls her into a tight, firm hug, and waits.


	65. Bus Kids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5x06 coda.  
> Fluff, with a tad of hurt/comfort.
> 
> Deliberately written as a parallel to [this romantic FSK version.](http://theclaravoyant.tumblr.com/post/169574686122/a-fitzskimmons-5x06-coda)

“Put me down, put me down!” Daisy demanded as they rounded another corner and approached what might, for now, be called safety. Reluctantly, FitzSimmons obliged, and Daisy cried out through clenched teeth as they eased her to the ground as best they could. 

“I’m sorry, that was my bad,” Fitz fretted. “I should have nicked the remote-“

“I should have just climbed the bloody stairs instead of being a showoff,” Daisy retorted and gritted her teeth, looking up and away as Jemma prodded at her injuries. “I knew they had it. What an idiot. May’s gonna kill me.” 

“Follow my finger,” Jemma interrupted, and began the customary dance while Daisy did her best to follow. She frowned, and hummed softly to herself. Daisy grimaced. 

“What’s the damage, doc?”

“Well, you’ve got a relatively minor concussion,” Jemma explained, in an exasperated tone, “which I’d say was impressive except that it seems to be due to your poor ankle taking the worst of it. The right one is definitely broken, possibly shattered, and the left doesn’t look too happy either. You’re extremely lucky that you didn’t dislocate something, dropping from that height onto solid concrete.” 

“So what you’re saying is, May _should_ kill me,” Daisy noted. “Good to have you onside. Thanks for the support.” 

She groaned as she tried to adjust her seating position, and Jemma glared at her. 

“What I am _saying,”_ she corrected, “is that you’d better hope your face doesn’t swell up too much because that and your hands are the only things you have going for you.” 

Daisy smiled a winning smile, and batted her eyelids. “Aren’t they always?” 

Her attempt at humour faded, however, when Jemma pursed her lips and went back to her work. She knew that Jemma was only crabby because she was worried, but it still hurt. Fortunately, Fitz took this moment to reach for her hand, and though her knuckles were bloody and bruised, his touch was soothing. His eyes were gentle, warm and comforting. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said. “Sorry for putting you in that position.” 

“’s okay,” Daisy excused him. “It got us here, didn’t it?” 

“Sorry about – that Inhuman,” Fitz continued. 

“Ben.” Daisy sighed. “Yeah. Me too.” 

Jemma paused in her ministrations. Her expression had softened, no longer as affected by her own frustration and worry after overhearing Fitz and Daisy. Trying to cut away the bottom of Daisy’s pants with only a butterknife seemed like a minor problem now. Still, it had to be done. She cleared her throat, cracking through the fragile silence and pulling them back to the task at hand. 

“Ah, sorry,” she interrupted. “Does anyone have anything for – “ 

“Yeah. Hold on.” Fitz reached into his boot and pulled out a whopper of a knife; something that had apparently come straight out of Rambo. It sliced through Daisy’s pants with ease, and Jemma started working on her shoe. 

“Where the hell did you get that?” Daisy scoffed. Fitz gestured to his jacket, and the gleaming Genku-larvae badge. 

“Evil scary murderer, remember?” 

“Right. Got anything else up your sleeve?” 

“Unfortunately not. We were short on time and shockingly, when Kasius decided to surround himself with competitive warmongers he requested that no weapons be allowed.” 

“Jemma?” Daisy asked hopefully. “You’ve got huge sleeves. Anything useful?” 

“Just the butterknife.” Jemma held it up, its tiny serrations shimmering with some sort of blue liquid. Fitz and Daisy frowned at it, then at each other. 

“Is that…” Fitz wondered. 

“Blood?” Jemma filled in. “Yes, I think so. I don’t think he’s dead, or there would have been more of it, but it’ll throw him.” 

“It’ll also make him want to kill us,” Fitz pointed out. 

“- but you stole his prize possession, and it helped,” Daisy added, “so he probably already wants to do that. Which means we shouldn’t stay here.” 

“Ideally, we shouldn’t move you either,” Jemma pointed out. “But you’re right. Fitz?” 

“On it.” Fitz grabbed the knife and hacked one of Jemma’s sleeves away. Then he began ripping the material into strips, and Daisy focused on staying as still as possible while Jemma made quick work of a tourniquet. 

“Now, Daisy, don’t you walk on this,” she warned gravely. “And once we get you back to the lower decks, keep it elevated above your heart, okay?” 

“What- you’re going to dump me in medical?” Daisy objected. “What about May? What about…“ 

Voiceless, her lips finished the sentence: _what about us?_  

_Us against the world._

Jemma bit her lip. She glanced over at Fitz, and he looked back with the same thought in his eyes. It was risky, but neither one of them would take well to being left behind if it was them in Daisy’s place, especially not with the rest of the team in danger. Besides, it was not as though Daisy herself was not hot property: they couldn’t trust that the lower decks would not be raided, and leaving a powerless, severely injured Daisy alone with a price on her head was not particularly appealing either. 

Somewhere down the hall, a bullet pinged off metal. Priorities recalibrated, Fitz helped Daisy back to her feet.

“I vote we argue about this later,” he suggested. 

“Seconded,” Daisy agreed. 

“But what are we going to do?” Jemma pressed. Her hands tightened around the knives, just in case. 

Wide-eyed, the three of them shared a look, each spinning calculations in their heads based on their skills, resources, and liabilities. Questions pinged around the circle. 

“You know your way around here, right?”

“How far can you carry 130 pounds?” 

“Is it too risky to remove the implants altogether?”

“How many rounds has this thing got left?” 

“Okay, I’ve got it,” Daisy declared. “Jemma, you go on ahead. Keep the knives, we might need them later, but the fight’s behind us at the moment. You navigate. Fitz: I’m gonna need you to think buff thoughts. First stop is the nearest elevator, wherever the hell that is.” 

“What about you?” 

“Me?” Daisy snatched the gun off Fitz, checked its rounds, and cocked it. “I take this. Concussed or not concussed I can still hit a moving target if it’s 180 pounds, especially if it’s moving toward me.” More bullets, and shouting down the hall. Daisy ground her teeth together. “So are we ready?” 

Then came a shout of _Hey, you there!_ which the three of them took as a cue. 

Jemma took off, piecing together everything she’d learnt over her time here into as comprehensive a map as she could make, and willing herself to find the lift, lift, lift. Fitz hauled Daisy into his arms and ran after her, concentrating on keeping his back to the battle so that Daisy’s aim of the ICER over his shoulder remained true. It was nervewracking, but their enemies fell, and though a few bullets shot past, none of them touched him. 

Daisy whooped with glee as they left their first lot of enemies behind them. 

“Nice work! How’s that elevator coming, Jemma? And – damn, Fitz, do you even lift?” 

She grinned, and Fitz scoffed – insofar as one could, as his lungs started to resist the straining effort of his arms.

“There’s not much to do in prison, okay?” he retorted. 

“Prison?” she frowned. “When were you in prison?” 

“Long story. Carry now, talk later.” 

“This way.” Jemma waved them into a side passage, and then into an elevator. 

“Oh, thank God,” Fitz sighed, and for a moment he let Daisy slip to the ground so that she stood on one foot, leaning on his shoulders. She mimicked a swoon, grinning broadly as she teased; 

“My hero! Oh – and speaking of which, what was that back there about a proposal?" 

“That was me,” Jemma said, eyeing Fitz with a fond yet slightly smug grin. “He was being all dashing and I couldn’t help it. You should’ve seen him.” 

Fitz rolled his eyes, and scoffed loudly. “Seen me? You should have _heard_ me! It was a masterpiece, Jemma!” 

“ _Could we not-“_ Daisy yelped- “gesticulate wildly while me and my broken ankle are leaning on you?” 

“Right, sorry.” 

Jemma rolled her eyes as Fitz reeled himself in. In his defense, she explained: “He’s annoyed because he claims to have proposed to me earlier, while my hearing was switched off. Apparently it was quite the eloquent display that I missed, and me grabbing his lapels like something _straight_ out of the pictures and asking him to sweep me off my feet wasn’t good enough for him.” 

“I never said that,” Fitz objected. “It was perfect, I’m just saying, mine was perfect…er. Daisy, help me out here.” 

Jemma eyed Daisy, calling on the bonds of friendship they’d built over the years. Daisy gave her a reluctant cringe.

“The man gives a good speech,” she apologised. “What can I say?” 

“Hmph.” Jemma scowled, but it didn’t last long before a smile crept back onto her lips. “How about this, you can write vows as long as you want and I won’t interrupt you at all through the whole thing.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

Fitz’s chest swelled up, his eyes sparkling with pride, joy, and a hint of mischief that suggested he was contemplating a entire encyclopaedia of vows, but before he could tell Jemma as much, Daisy interrupted with a breathless gasp of glee. 

“This is really happening,” she whispered, a little tearfully. “You’re really getting married?”

“Of course,” Jemma replied, shutting every _unless_ in a steel trap for another day. “Would you like to be my Maid of Honour?”

“ _Would- Jemma- what-“_ Daisy spluttered, her mock-indignance crumbling in the face of her very real sense of overwhelming joy. With the arm that was not wrapped around Fitz’s shoulders, she reached out to touch Jemma’s fingers in celebration and solidarity.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then?” Jemma checked, teasing. 

“You’d freaking better,” Daisy growled. “Ah, I’m so happy for you guys!” She planted a kiss on Fitz’s cheek, and he yelped dramatically. Pulling away with a softer, fonder expression, Daisy added: “I mean it. Both of you, you deserve it.” 

The elevator door pinged, and Fitz scrambled to scoop Daisy back up in his arms. She pointed the nose of the gun forward and Jemma, knives at the ready just in case, made sure to keep to the side, out of the way, as the doors slid open.

“So I suppose it means nothing to you ladies,” Fitz began as they made their way forward into the hall. “That I was going to ask Daisy to be my best man?” 

“Offff course you were,” Jemma groaned.

“Hey, come on, let the man speak,” Daisy argued. 

“Thank you, Daisy,” Fitz retorted, with a smug glare at Jemma. “First of all-“ 

He was interrupted by shouts from the elevator hall behind, and then a light shattered over his head. It was just his luck, of course, that that’s when the fire-fight really began.


	66. Fitz & Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "sing something for me" + Fitz & Daisy  
> short, fluffy, road-trippy goodness ft. really bad Scottish accents. Rated G. Enjoy!

“You’re a good singer,” Fitz remarked, as Daisy got back into the car and offloaded an armful of mints, snack cakes and other roadtrip goodies into his lap. His comment was out of the blue – he doesn’t speak much at all these days – but that wasn’t why Daisy snorts. 

“Am not,” she scoffed, rolling a hard candy between her teeth. 

“Are too,” Fitz insisted. “I mean, you’re not… in tune or anything-“ 

“-thanks-“

“- but it’s good, the singing. I like it.”

A smile touched his lips when Daisy blushed. Sometimes he forgets how unaccustomed she is to praise. 

“It’s fun,” he continued. “It really makes the music feel… alive.” 

“Well... that’s good,” she agreed, if a little abashedly. “You can join me, you know.” 

Fitz shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m not very good at singing, ‘specially not, you know-“ 

“Never stopped me.” With a grin, Daisy dialed the volume of the music back up and flicked to the next song. 

_MY ANACONDA DON’T-_

Fitz nearly jumped out of his chair and Daisy cackled with laughter. 

“Sorry!” she squeaked. “Still on my workout playlist. But don’t you worry. I have a couple songs I’m _sure_ you’ll know. Henry, play The Fitz Mix.” 

Grinning to herself, Daisy started the car. Fitz listened curiously, watching her mischievous expression for clues. A familiar guitar strum came through the speakers and for a second, he couldn’t place it – and then he could, and groaned. 

“Daisy, I’m not sing the- the bloody- the Proclaimers,” he griped, jabbing at the car radio with an accusatory finger. Daisy shook her head, primly, exuding confidence.

“You are,” she insisted. “It’s scientifically impossible not to sing to this song.” 

“’m not doing it.” 

“Sing and I’ll give you a mint?”

“No.” 

“Fine. Guess I’ll sing it by myself then.” She cleared her throat, and joined in, and Fitz crossed his arms tantrum-style and scowled as deeply as he could manage while she mangled the Scottish accent with all her might. 

“n AH would WALK five hundred mayals anna AH would walk five hundred more –“ 

Despite his determination to hate Everyone’s Favourite Scottish Song, Fitz couldn’t help a smile creeping onto his face as Daisy glanced at him every couple of words, calculating just how “fun” and “alive” she could make the music sound before he rolled his eyes and caved. 

“DA DA DAH!”  
  
“DA DA DAH!” 

They called and answered, both of them laughing as they rollicked along with it, and Daisy cheered. As the next verse approached Fitz pretended to exercise his jaw, and then launched into it with an atrocious amount of enthusiasm. Daisy laughed so hard she nearly steered them off the road for a second, but Fitz was incapable of distraction. For all the love-hate relationship he had with this song, he’d sung it in every place he’d ever lived, in every state of inebriation, and with all his deepest and dearest friends – and plenty of others besides. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t good at singing anymore, or that he couldn’t remember the words. His body remembered it, like it had once remembered how to use a screwdriver or the order of the alphabet.

They sung – badly, embarrassingly and carefree – as the car sailed down the open road.


	67. Daisy & Coulson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I don't want to be alone" + Daisy & Coulson, Daisy & May. Angst/hurt/comfort, set immediatly-ish after the S2 midseason finale (ie evacuating from Puerto Rico after Trip's death). Rated G/T.

They take her out on a stretcher. 

She remembers reaching out for Coulson’s hand. 

The rest of it is mostly a blur. Voices she wasn’t paying attention to. Bodies moving around her. They can’t find Trip, but she can’t find the words to tell them what has happened to him. Even she’s not sure what happened. It feels like a dream, even though she knows she’s not asleep – she knows, because going to sleep is one of the million things her body is screaming at her to do. Sleep, cry, vomit, get up and run around screaming… in the end it’s all too much and the world feels like it is still shaking around her and all she can do is curl up into a ball and let it.

It gets a little calmer when they sit her in the bath. She feels as miserable as she’s ever felt in her life, but she doesn’t have the time or the energy to feel indignant about the fact that they’re babying her: she’s incapable of showering on her own at this moment in time, and somewhere inside this buzzing numbness she wants to get the day off her skin as much as they do. 

The shaking of the world fades as May slowly, methodically sponges her over. The sound of the water, splashing and dripping, and May’s quiet humming, a song Skye doesn’t recognise, soothes the ringing in her ears. She still feels a strange buzzing – maybe it’s the adrenaline – but at last she can take a deep breath and feel a flicker of life, of sanity, of the present, creep in through the numbness. 

“There you are,” May murmurs in greeting. “We’re back at base. There was a cave-in. Do you remember?” 

_Reaching for Trip. She can’t breathe._

Nodding, Skye closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to see what happens next. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” May offers. Hugging her knees, Skye shoves her nose into the crook of her elbow and shakes her head. For a moment there, it looks like _cry_ is about to become the victorious instruction in her brain, but when May doesn’t push, and instead just lets warm water run down over her back, Skye calms again. 

“We’ll have to ask you some questions eventually,” May explains, “but it doesn’t have to be right now. It’s okay. You’re safe now, just in shock. Everything you’re feeling is perfectly natural and it will go away in time.” 

Even the bees it feels like she’s swallowed? Skye wonders. Even the memory of Trip’s face, cast in stone, cracking and crumbling before her very eyes? 

“Trip- “ she starts, and her voice is so soft and rasping that she’s not sure May even hears it – and even less so, when May moves at a sound on the other side of the door. Somebody has knocked, Skye pieces together. Somebody in a big, grey hazmat suit that sends a bolt of fear through her heart. She knows the people in there are human, but they scream of people about to take her away. 

May steps in front of them decisively, locking her eyes firmly on Skye’s. 

“I’m going to need you to get up, okay?” she says, but her voice is firm and urgent. _Get up, or somebody’s going to make you._ Skye drags herself to her feet and May wraps her in a towel, helping, holding her reluctant body up as the hazmat-suit herds them down the hall. There are more of them there, and Skye can’t recognise anyone. Is Coulson there? Jemma? Fitz? 

Bobbi has a grim expression on the other side of one of those visors. 

“I’m sorry, Skye,” she says. “Something happened to Trip, and we’re not sure what, so we’re going to have to put you through a disinfectant shower. Have you done one of these before?” 

Skye is distracted, however, by the fact that somebody else in a hazmat suit is leading May in the other direction. She tries to fight past Bobbi, but not well. 

“May?!” she cries. “Are you sick? May, are you sick? Is she sick?” 

A chill runs through Skye and she thinks of Trip again. What could have done that to him? Does she have it now? Does May? Skye throws the questions in Bobbi’s direction, and gets back a lot of _I don’t know, I don’t know_ \- but Bobbi seems genuine in her distress, an in her sympathy, so Skye follows her instructions through the chemical shower, answers her questions over and over, lets her take her blood again and test her eyes and ears again, just in case. Bobbi moves quickly, efficiently, but Skye can sense the fear – not just in her; it’s in all of them. Nobody is entirely sure if they want to look at her. 

(Will they believe her if she says it wasn’t her fault?) 

(Does she even believe that herself?)

By the time Skye is allowed out of showers and towels and tearaway robes, and bundled into some clothes, she is exhausted. Fear keeps her heart pounding loudly, and that incessant buzzing still won’t stop, but when she lays down on the bed they’ve set up for her she almost doesn’t care that it’s sealed behind a glass wall. Her eyelids are heavy, her bones feel like lead, and she hopes that when she finally closes them the night will pass in a flash and she’ll wake up tomorrow and have some sort of clue as to what’s going on. 

Of course, when she closes her eyes only a fraction of a second passes, and she wakes up a fraction of a second later and there has been no change. Scientists in suits still lumber around her like giants, inelegant and suffocating. One of them brings her a tray of food. It’s Fitz, and judging by his expression he wants to offer her something reassuring, but he can’t. 

“You haven’t eaten in over ten hours,” he informs her. “Sorry this is all you’re allowed right now. I’m working on something, okay?” 

Skye thanks him, but it’s hollow; true gratitude is hard to find as she turns the mashed potato over with her fork, and thinks about how she doesn’t really feel like eating. She doesn’t feel like doing much of anything, to be honest. Doesn’t even really feel like continuing to be present on this plane of existence but there’s not much she can do about that. She can’t even sleep it off, not with all these people poking and prodding and fawning and fearing. 

Ugh. It’s going to be a long night.

Eventually however, the crowd does begin to dissipate. At first she figures it must just be because they’re running out of things to do and because of course they must be scared and tired and hungry too. Then she adds to her analysis, the fact that Coulson is wheedling his way through the crowd when he probably has a thousand other places he should be, and he has a packet of pretzels in his pocket. 

Skye’s stomach rumbles as the last attendant leaves, and Coulson smirks as if he can hear it from the other side of the glass. He slips the pretzels into the vacuum drawer and she pulls them out the other side, rips them open, and shoves a handful in her mouth. They don’t taste great, but they’re something, so she takes another handful.

“Good to see you up and about again,” Coulson remarks. “You weren’t looking so good when we pulled you out of there. You okay?” 

Skye drops back onto the bed. 

“Trip’s dead, isn’t he?” she asks.

“I’m afraid it looks that way,” Coulson admits. “We’ve still got Jemma on the ground, leading a search, but…” 

“Is it my fault?”

“Why would it be your fault?” 

“I… I don’t know.” Skye shakes her head.

“Is it… something to do with what you said to me back there?” Coulson guesses, stepping closer to the glass as if trying his best to keep a secret. “About how you wanted to make it right? About your father?” 

“I don’t know,” Skye repeats, though this time it takes effort to swallow the hitch in her voice. Disease or no disease, chemicals or no chemicals, crystal or no crystal, this wouldn’t have happened without her. Trip would still be alive without her.

“What happened down there, Skye?” 

This time the words don’t even come. She holds them back behind a quivering lip as guilt and terror and exhaustion and sharp, powerful sorrow bubble up from zero to sixty and try to force their way out. Hot, stinging tears smear across her cheeks and Coulson, expression softer now, apologetically puts his hand to the glass as if longing to touch her. 

“Oh, Skye, I’m sorry,” he breathes. “It’s okay, take your time. It’s been a long day, especially for you. Get some rest. I’ll debrief with the others and we can talk in the morning. Okay?”  
  
Skye shakes her head. “Don’t go,” she pleads, reaching her hand out to the glass just as his falls away. He pauses. 

“Please-“ she stammers. The visions of Trip won’t leave her alone. The screaming, scratching in her voice as she called for him. The way the Obelisk lit up when she touched it, the thrill of heat through her skin, everything Raina and her father had said about _destiny._ So many thoughts and memories and visions; she tries to shake them from her head and they won’t go.

“Please, I- I don’t know what’s happening to me and I don’t want to be alone.”

“I understand,” Coulson promises. He slings his jacket off his shoulders and sits down in the nearest chair. “Don’t you worry. I’m not going anywhere.”


	68. Fitz & Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "It's okay to stay, you know." + FitzDaisy
> 
> With her best friends retiring from Shield, Daisy has a lot to think about, but an old friend is there to soothe her worries. Hurt/comfort. Rated G/T. FitzDaisy brotp + background FS.

“It’s okay to stay, you know,” he says.

Distracted, Daisy looks up from the photograph in her hand. Fitz has made it all the way to her desk without her noticing, and he smiles at her with lips pressed together, bittersweet. 

Daisy sighs and surrenders the photograph, letting it slip to the table, and Fitz’s eyes follow the image. It’s an old shot of them, snapped with a Polaroid Daisy once owned. Him, her and Jemma; all shiny and new and beaming, years ago. It’s not hard to read the age, the pain, the hardness on Daisy’s face now, especially not compared to back then. They’ve come so far, he thinks; so far that, apparently, he’s come out the other end and left Daisy in the tunnel – and from the looks of things, in the dark. 

“It’s okay,” he repeats gently. “That you want to stay. It doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”

“Doesn’t it?” Daisy challenges. If she had ever been aiming for humour, she missed her mark but Fitz rolls with it, and snorts sardonically.

“I mean, crippling attachment issues and probably a heap of PTS,” he clarifies, “but you shouldn’t feel bad that me and Jemma are moving on. Shield doesn’t give us what it once did, you know, but if it still gives you something then… let it. With these resources you could do amazing things – for the world, for Inhumans, for whatever you want. Don’t let me and Jemma and some- some dream of domestic bliss, scare you away from that.” 

Daisy takes a deep breath. He’s right; she does sometimes dream of domestic bliss. Sun streaming through her window. Painting the house. Cooking with her partner. It’s soft and quiet and light - so different from reality, from this dark office in which she is soon to be alone, and from Fitz, who has a heaviness in his eyes. It speaks of sincerity and love, but also of the horrific journey he’s been on; the poisonous cycle he’s been most recently dragged into; the depth of the violence that has been done to his soul, and from which he’s trying desperately to claw back his life. Daisy recognises that heaviness, but she can only thank her lucky stars it has never been Shield inflicting it on her. Shield has always been the place she’d run – willingly or otherwise. For Fitz, now, that place is his hardwood floor apartment with a breakfast nook, and Jemma, and job at a toyshop of all places. 

Daisy feels a smile touch her lips at that part; feels a hint of that lightness she felt when Fitz had first announced his plans.

Fitz smiles back.

“You’re thinking of our super attractive, super genius babes again, aren’t you?” he teases, and Daisy laughs. 

“Hey, I expect nothing less than premium human specimens from you two,” she warns.  
  
“Well,” Fitz confesses, “they’re a while off yet. Jemma wants to do medical school for real and well, there’s only so much crazy we’re can handle.” 

“That’s fair,” Daisy concedes. 

Just then, there’s a quiet knock at the door. Jemma clutching her handbag, offers a soft smile, apologetic for the interruption. 

“Just a minute, love,” Fitz requests, and Jemma nods and backs out again. Daisy smiles at the sparkle in his eye: the promise of a softer future with the woman of his dreams easing some of that heaviness for a while.

“You can’t rush art, huh,” she muses. 

“Yet another reason for you to stay here ‘til you’re ready,” Fitz points out. “Jemma and I are expecting big things from you too, Agent. Or should I say, Director?” 

Daisy crinkles her nose, laughing and cringing at the same time. She shakes her head. “Oh, hell no. No way.” 

“Think about it,” Fitz suggests. “You know you can make Shield what it should be. 

“I really couldn’t,” she insists. “I couldn’t make those hard calls. I’d hate it.” 

“That’s why you’d be right for it,” Fitz counters. “You question Shield and believe in them at the same time. It’s why they’ll follow you. I would.” 

“Well, you wouldn’t would you, or else you wouldn’t be running for the hills.” 

“Daisy.” He locks his eyes on hers fiercely. “I know you know what this means to me. So I know that if you show up on my doorstep in 20 years and ask for my help, it will be with good reason, and I’ll give it.”

Humbled by his ferocious sincerity, not to mention the fact that this feels like a goodbye for which she’ll never be ready, Daisy finds herself blinking back tears. 

“It’s not – it’s not going to be 20 years though, right?” Her voice trembles more than she ever wanted to let it, and Fitz reaches out to wrap her in his arms like part of him has been wanting to do all day. 

“No,” he promises. “You’re still coming for dinner Saturday – assuming of course, you’ve managed to keep the world turning til then.” 

“You know I can’t promise anything,” Daisy reminds him, “but I’ll do my best.”


	69. Daisy & Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I'll hold you as long as you need"  
> Rshps: Daisy & Hunter, also references Daisy & Simmons, and some Daisy & Fitz. Angst hurt/comfort. Set in the S2/3 hiatus.

The day Daisy decides to stop looking, it takes a long time for her to finish crying. 

It feels like it will never stop, until it does – probably because she’s run out of tears. She’s run out of the energy to cry. She’s run out of hope to give up on, and so the howling grief has passed and now she feels numb. Drifting. Raw.

There’s a knock at her door and she makes a sound. Somewhere between ‘yes’ and ‘come in’ and ‘go away’.

Hunter decides to come in. He waves his hands a bit, unsure what to do with them as Daisy wipes her cheeks and pulls herself to the edge of her bed. The pages of a letter she wrote herself – to help herself, or so she’d thought, when this day finally came – lie scattered across her sheets and across the floor, some of them balled up and cried on and torn. Hunter begins to pick his way through them and Daisy offers him a pitiful smile.

“How’s Fitz?” she asks, and her voice is low and hoarse and ragged. 

“Mad as hell,” Hunter replies. Daisy nods. This is not unexpected.

Then Hunter asks: “How are you?” 

Daisy finds there’s no answer to that. There are no words to express the pain, the grief, the guilt to be giving up, the sense of betrayal – against Jemma, against Fitz – and worse, the sick sort of relief she finds coming over her, from finally being able to let go. There is no way she can think of, to describe how much she misses Jemma’s smile and her eye-rolls and her encouraging, stiff-upper-lip advice – even if Daisy never listened to it. There is a hollow place in her heart that words cannot reach, and the only person she thinks might ever understand the depth of it is, if possible, in even more pain over it than she is. 

“Yeah.” Hunter nods, in response to her silence, and moves a lost page aside to sit down on the bed. “I’ve been there.” 

“Are you gonna give me some… motivational speech or something?” 

“Did you want one?”

“No.” Daisy shakes her head, and blinks. Her body has, apparently, found more tears, and they’re welling up faster than she can stop them. “I – I think I just want a hug.” 

“I gotcha,” Hunter promises, shuffling his seat so that he can wrap his arms around her. “This good?” 

“…Yeah.” 

“Not as good as Fitz’s though, right?” 

Daisy snorts, but it’s tearful and snotty because she’s thinking of how much pain she’s left Fitz in and how much anger. He’s prickly and sharp around the edges now and he might never hug her, let alone anyone else, ever again. She was one of the last to give up and she hates that she’s done that to him. It feels like it’s her fault. Everything does. 

And then she’s thinking of Jemma again, and Jemma’s embrace; somehow more vibrant and joyful than Fitz’s bone-deep comfort, but no less reassuring. It had always been so good at conveying the gentle love she never seemed to manage with her words. It’s yet another thing, Daisy realises, she’ll never feel again. 

“It’s alright,” Hunter promises, rubbing her back slowly and unobtrusively. “Snot it up. I know you can do better than that.”

Daisy is still too exhausted to sob and howl and carry on, but tears are streaming so she rubs her face on Hunter’s shirt, and smiles when he laughs a little. 

“That’s more like it,” he praises. “Have a good cry, it’s alright.” 

But Daisy doesn’t have much crying left in her. The tears still flow, but her whole chest is aching and there’s no pressure to sob with. Instead, she takes a deep breath – well, tries – and tries again until it feels like there’s actually some oxygen reaching her brain. Her lips quiver around all the things she wants to say, but her mind hasn’t even finished sorting through it all yet. She feels a strange need to explain to Hunter why she’s suck a wreck, but she cannot speak the words. _My best friend is gone._

“I miss her so much,” she whispers instead. 

“I know,” Hunter whispers back, in a voice that soothes the anxious explanations tumbling around inside her. It’s a voice that makes her heart beat a little slower and her throat feel just a little less raw. A voice that might just truly know what this kind of loss is like.

She holds him tighter, until long after the tears cease to fall.


	70. Daisy & Coulson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "My hands are shaking" + Daisy & Coulson.  
> Slightly cheesy, unashamedly fluffy. Rated G. Set in the distant/indistinct future. Daisy & Coulson. Background Philinda, background team, and if you squint, background Quakerider.

“Knock knock!” Daisy called, more of a formality than anything as she pressed the door open with her shoulder and entered the room. Coulson was over by the mirror, intently focused on arranging and rearranging his tie, and muttering under his breath. Daisy could feel the tension radiating off him from the doorway. She smiled: it was unusual to see him so flustered, and though most of it was probably due to frustration and nerves she was still determined to chalk it up to love.

“Daisy!” Coulson cheered when she entered, glad to have an excuse to momentarily abandon the uncooperative strip of material. He waved her over instead. “Could you get this please? My hands – well my hand – is shaking, and my prosthetic doesn’t seem to be much good for this.” 

Daisy clicked her tongue disapprovingly, shaking her head for the theatrics. “That Fitz. It’s just not good enough. Never know when you might need to tie a Windsor to military precision in the middle of a battlefield, do you?” 

“Exactly,” Coulson agreed, playing along. “You get it.” 

Daisy bit her lip, grinning as she pulled the tie into shape. His problem now addressed, Coulson relaxed and the smile soon returned to his face too; dreamier and more hopeful than Daisy could ever remember seeing him. She stepped out of the way so that he could give a final check over his appearance: a fine grey suit, with red features in the tie and pocket-square to match May’s dress. He tugged it so the lines sat more flatteringly, tried undoing the button and then doing it again, fixed his cuffs – his anxiousness was so adorably boyish, like he was waiting for his prom date, that Daisy almost laughed, but she bit it back. 

She bit it back, and watched in fond adoration as Coulson’s expression once again became wrapped up in thought. Thought of today, thought of May. How often had Coulson dreamed of it, Daisy wondered. She’d never seen him and May as the type for getting married, but maybe that’s just because they were older and more understated in their affection than she was used to. How many chances like this had Coulson given up in his life? May, Daisy knew, had had Andrew and lost him, not once but twice over. Coulson, too, had had a sweetheart – not a fiancée, she didn’t think, but a possibility. A cello player, that’s all Daisy remembered, and he’d had to leave her too. Shield had taken so much from each of them – taken their chance at this sort of life – and yet still they pursued it. They circled back to each other. Or, rather, they’d never left each other. Maybe that’s why Daisy had never seen today on the cards, because it seemed so much like icing on the cake. 

(That said, of course, Daisy was never one to turn her nose up at cake.) 

Expected or not though, the day was upon them, and the rising hubbub outside Coulson’s dressing room reminded Daisy why she had come to fetch him in the first place. The door swung open and Mack stuck his head inside, and ordered them to get a wriggle on. Daisy waved him off and when he left, Coulson took a deep breath. 

“Hoo, boy,” he breathed. “This is happening, isn’t it?” 

“I know you are not telling me you’re having second thoughts,” Daisy warned. He shook his head. 

“The opposite,” he assured her. “Actually, I kind of felt like I was dreaming ‘til just now.” 

It was not hard to see why. A well-planned, if small wedding, in a beautiful if small church, where their names would be officially registered – all charges cleared – and photos would be taken and their lives would be interwoven, romantically, irrevocably, forever… It had never been on the cards before; at least, not since a man named ‘Agent’ had once died and ended up saving the world.

“It says something about our lives that this is a weird day, huh,” Daisy remarked. 

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Coulson reminded her. He shook his head, smiling fondly – it didn’t take much to turn his mind back to the task at hand. He gestured Daisy’s way toward the door. “So, how does this work? Are you going to give me away?”

“No, I’m flower girl, remember?”

Coulson shrugged. “Worth a shot. To be honest I’m not sure how this works, now that I’m an old man ‘n all.” 

“How’s this,” Daisy offered, “I’ll walk you to the doorway. And I promise I’ll call an ambulance if you have a heart attack when you see her.” 

“Do you really think that’s likely?” 

“Oh, I’m not talking about May,” Daisy baited, letting the air of mystery linger a moment before she went on. “I mean, May _is_ stunning, so look out, but actually I’m talking about another special little lady. A friend of mine tracked her down. Polished her up…” 

Coulson’s jaw dropped. “No.” 

“… a girl who looks even better in red than I do?” Daisy continued, teasing. 

“No!” Coulson gasped, realisation clicking into place. Daisy pulled out her phone and showed him the picture: Robbie Reyes gesturing somewhat smugly to the car. His beloved Lola. Reyes was sitting on the bonnet but at this point Coulson didn’t even care. He could have cried, just from looking at it. So many memories of that damned car, and all he could think about was taking it down a desert highway with May at his side and silence and no-one and no responsibilities around them for days. 

“She’s here, she’s outside,” Daisy explained. “When the ceremony is over she’s ready to take you guys on your honeymoon!”

“Daisy,” Coulson choked tearfully – “this is-“ 

“The least I could do,” she insisted, just as tearful herself. “The least we could do, me and Robbie and the whole team, for all you’ve done for us. Congratulations. I love you. All that. Now- let’s get out there before I ruin my make-up!”

Waving, she chased him toward the door, and Coulson was only too happy to oblige.


	71. Bobbi & Fitz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I don't want to be alone" + Bobbi & Fitz.  
> Set vaguely early S3. Mild angst/Hurt/comfort. Bobbi helps Fitz manage difficult hallucinations (said hallucinations are not described in graphic detail). Rated T.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am no expert in schizophrenia or psychosis, but the coping techniques used below are based on research.

Bobbi’s knee was keeping her up again, so she went to the gym to stretch it out. Unfortunately, with everything else going on, her workout left her more wired than anything and though her knee was, for now, less angry, her lung was burning from the exertion. _Can’t win._

It was on a slower wander through the base, trying to walk this off into some semblance of balance, that Bobbi stumbled across Fitz, pacing in the little kitchenette. He was alone – most of the team was off-duty, and those that were on didn’t spend a lot of time around him these days – but Bobbi figured she could go for some tea, and from the look of Fitz and his tense shoulders, he could too. In fact, the kettle was already boiling as Bobbi approached, and she watched as Fitz, with an expression of intense concentration, placed a mug on the bench, and then a teabag in the mug, and picked up the kettle. He was muttering under his breath, which wasn’t unusual, except that he didn’t seem to be having a conversation with anyone she couldn’t see. And he didn’t seem all that happy about it. Sometimes he hummed or recited information to himself to deal with stress or hallucinations, but this seemed different. He seemed to cower over the coffee cup as if there were someone behind him, badgering him. He yelped, “I’m not!” and “Stop it!” a few times at an audible volume and then waved an angry, irritated hand at the air.

Bobbi jumped forward as the kettle swayed dangerously in his grasp.

“Woah, hey,” she warned, “maybe put the boiling water down before we do that, okay?”

With her hands to help steady his, Fitz put the kettle down and backed away with a heavy sigh. Bobbi stepped in, bringing out her own mug and teabag and pouring for them both as Fitz recovered from the shock.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Fitz shook his head. His hands clenched and unclenched, fingers counting frantically, nervous as if she’d just pulled him from the edge of a cliff.

“They’re loud today,” he explained. “And… mean.”

“What are they saying?”

“Bad things.” His voice told her he wasn’t going to say more. A glance back over his shoulder told her he was scared the other voices were going to come back – or that they were still there.

“Is there anything I can do?” she offered, pulling his attention back to her. “Music helps, right? Here, I was listening to it in the gym.”

She pulled her phone from its holster around her thigh and passed it, and the earphones, across to him. He fumbled through a couple of songs until he found one he liked, and she felt a little swell of pride and relief as his shoulders settled. He popped one earbud back out, and smiled sheepishly at her.

“Thanks, Bobbi.”

“No problem.” She smiled at him, and held out his cup of tea. A little hesitant, he reached out and took it. Slowly, he took a sip, and seemed relieved to taste what he had been expecting.

“Is there anything else?” Bobbi checked. “Did you want me to stop talking? Or… keep talking? I assume you’re staying up. Did you want me to stay?”

“Would you?” Fitz’s eyes lit up at the chance.

“Sure,” Bobbi promised. “My body hates me tonight too, and I could use the chance to get some work done. I just have to duck back to the lab for a second, to grab my stuff, and I’ll be right back.”’

“I – oh, yeah, o- okay. Sure.” Fitz agreed reluctantly, and cast his eyes down, feeling foolish. Selfish.

Bobbi tilted her head. “What?”

“’s just, I… I really don’t want to be alone.”

 _Bad things,_ he’d said. Bobbi didn’t like to imagine what those could be. The vulnerability in Fitz’s voice shook her, but it was a vulnerability with which she had become a little too accustomed these last few months. It was also a vulnerability Fitz had helped her come to terms with. It was beyond only fair; it was without question, that she return the favour.

“Then come,” Bobbi offered. “We can grab your Rubick’s Cube or something to keep those hands busy too.”

She nodded at them, and Fitz smiled. Bobbi had never seemed to mind how they shook and flapped and fought him. Sometimes they felt like his enemies, but they were not. Sometimes they felt like badges of disgrace, but Bobbi didn’t see them that way, no matter what the voices said. What would the voices know, anyway?

Humming along to Bobbi’s music to help keep them at bay, Fitz trailed Bobbi down to the lab, and then back to the couches where they set themselves up quite comfortably, taking up all the space they wanted to take up since the place was all but empty. Fitz found Bobbi a suitable cushion to prop up her knee and she passed him his Rubick’s Cube. Sliding down the couch until he was lying on his back, chin mashed against his chest, he played with it idly, letting the motion lull him. The voices still jabbed at him, keeping the hairs on the back of his neck on end; keeping him a few inches from sleep. But it was better.

“Talking or not talking?” Bobbi checked again. “If you want, I can read this aloud.”

“What is it?”

Bobbi shrugged. “New journal on Forensic Genetics. Could be interesting.”

“I doubt it,” Fitz snorted. A smirk crept onto his lips. “But that’s okay. I should get some sleep anyway.”

He reached for a cushion to punctuate his point, and Bobbi scoffed.

“Oh, that’s how it is?” she retorted. “I’ll be getting you back for that burn later, mister, but for now, settle in for the ride of your life. I call it ‘Next Generation Sequencing and its Applications for Forensic Genetics’.”

Fitz finally closed his eyes as she began to read.


	72. Daisy & Coulson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: (paraphrased) Simmons instructs May & Coulson to take care of Daisy, who is super sick but pretending to ignore it. Bonus points if Simmons catches Daisy sneaking out.
> 
> Mostly Daisy & Coulson, also ft some May & some Simmons. Rated G/maybe light T just in case.

“No buts!” Coulson snapped, raising a finger as if to stop her pointing out that he simply liked the phrase _no butts._ “I am but a humble conduit. Bed. Now. Doctor’s orders.”

“Come _on!”_ Daisy objected. “Everyone else is working double shifts, you said you need everyone on the floor.”

“Everyone who’s not turning green,” May clarified. “You need to rest, Daisy, and we need you rested.”

“What about Simmons, doesn’t Simmons need to rest?” Daisy gestured down the hall, to where Simmons had just scampered off to take care of some emergency or other.

“Simmons is the only remotely qualified medic we have,” May insisted. “Nobody can cover her for the highest level incidents.” 

“I’m the only qualified hacker we have,” Daisy returned, with more passion than point. “I could…hack… something.” 

 _“- And_ her lungs are currently happy to remain _inside_ her body,” Coulson added. “Have you kept down anything you’ve eaten today?”

“Um – 100%.” It was not a lie, exactly; she just hadn’t eaten anything since midnight, so that counted, right? Unfortunately, in her exhausted state her ability to convincingly bend any sort of truth was severely compromised. Her voice, her face, her whole posture gave it away.

“Bed,” May instructed; the slightest softening of the sharp line of her mouth the only indication that she was remotely moved by Daisy’s desperation. “I’ll have somebody bring you something.” 

“What?” Daisy scoffed. “I can’t even make my own sandwich now?” 

May had been called away, and had left without a word, giving Daisy the distinct impression that she was being dismissed. She scoffed again, for good, dramatic measure, but it didn’t do as much as she’d hoped to relieve her frustration. In fact, it kinda made her want to throw up more. 

“I’ll take you,” Coulson offered.

“I know where to go,” she growled irritably. 

“I know. But Jemma’s going to have my guts for garters if you pass out on the way, isn’t she?” 

Daisy rolled her eyes and stomped off down the hallway. She was quite good at being petulant when she wanted to be, though she didn’t pull the card out as often as she could. It seemed to amuse Coulson though, as he trailed her and tried good-naturedly to offer her advice. And even though she knew a large part of the reason he had followed her was to make sure she would actually go to bed and not sneak away to find someplace else to work, she couldn’t help but be annoyed-yet-reassured by his dad-like steadiness and care. She shuffled the blankets both before and after he did, just to be petty, but when she asked for a bucket and he came back with a bowl, a towel, and a glass of water she felt the irritation begin to settle. If there weren’t so much to do, if she hadn’t been feeling quite so eager to help her busy team _right now_ , she might have let herself be soothed in that moment but instead, she simply pretended to give in. 

“I guess you’re right,” she sighed. “Maybe when my stomach’s not trying to murder me I’ll take over from Fitz in cyber. ‘m sure he’ll be much happier to hand over knowing I’m not going to upchuck all over the merchandise.” 

“Trust me, we would all be happier about that,” Coulson assured her. “And I’m sure Fitz will appreciate the rest. In six hours. At shift change. And not a minute earlier.” 

He pointed to her clock, and Daisy rolled her eyes. Then she remembered she was supposed to be giving in, and clenched the blankets so as to resist the urge to throw them aside.

“Ugh. Fine. Four o’clock, on the dot, you promised.” 

“Deal.” Coulson smiled, just a little inspired by her relentless desire to help. He rested a hand on her knee for a second, reassuring, and then got up to get back to work. There wasn’t much more he could think to say, so he just offered her a little nod, and said, “See you later.” 

Daisy simply nodded back, not eager to make any promises she didn’t intend to keep – because of course, ‘later,’ was not as much later as Coulson had intended. In fact, just over half an hour had passed when the centre of Coulson’s communications display was interrupted by Jemma’s video feed. 

She cleared her throat sharply, so disapprovingly that Coulson cringed. 

“Excuse me,” she said. “I thought I’d told you Daisy was to go to bed immediately.” 

“She did!” Coulson promised, as much to Simmons as to May, who was much closer to him and much more likely to glare or boot his shoulder for letting Daisy out of his sight.

“Then how do you explain this?”

Jemma moved the camera sideways, to where Coulson could see Daisy sleeping in a rather undignified manner, draped half over a table and half over a chair where her computer was processing some sort of code. A half-drunk bottle of bright pink Pepto-Bismal lay spilt by her hand, dripping slowly onto the floor.

“Um… it’s an art piece?” Coulson attempted.

He could feel May roll her eyes behind him, and promise Jemma: “I’ll get her.” 

The video feed closed, but not before Jemma let out a hurrumph of long-suffering frustration, and what Coulson guessed was something along the lines of; _I’m surrounded by children._

He made a mental note to ensure Jemma’s favourite biscuits could be found in the cupboard next time they were called upon.


	73. Trip & Simmons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "My hands are shaking."  
> Set late S1. A shaken Trip & Simmons talk at the hotel by the pool about the fall of Shield.

Trip rubbed his hands together, absently brushing out an anxious rhythm he couldn’t place, and didn’t dare to. He danced between his feet as if the air was much colder than it was, his whole body thrumming with adrenaline. Flight instinct. It had been a while since he’d got it this bad. He braced an arm on the side of the vending machine instead, and found his fingers tapping. How long did it take to spit out a bag of Cheetos? 

It was his third, actually, but he needed something to do. Something to chew. Something that wasn’t bolting from this place, like he desperately wanted to, and going for a walk to clear his head: aside from the danger of that, there was the skittishness. Everybody on the team was on edge, and now was not the time to disappear. 

Even he jumped when a figure rounded the corner. 

Jemma jumped too. 

“Oh. Trip. Sorry,” she bumbled, the words falling out into a stammering heap. “I was just – I mean –“ 

She tucked her hair behind her ear, unsure how to proceed. Trip realised he was standing in the way of the vending machine, which was the only thing down here, and stepped back. She slipped herself in between and made her selections. 

“It’s Fitz, you know,” she babbled, speaking more than anything to fill the silence. “I wanted to get him some comfort food. He’s really quite shaken by this whole thing I’m afraid, and I don’t- I don’t know what to say. He and Ward were quite close. It’s a tragedy, really.” 

She turned with her bundle of selections and expected to see Trip smirking at her, with that easy, calming way he usually has about him. The one on the top of the pile is a packet of GrainWaves chips, and there’s a pecan cookie falling out from under her arm – both of which Fitz has actively protested in the past. No doubt, she thought, Trip would notice this and tease her. _“Oh, right, and who’s this for then?”_

Instead he simply nodded, and looked down at his packet of Cheetos. 

His third. Which was unlike him. Jemma frowned. 

“Are you alright, Agent Triplett?” she asked, a little softer now. He hesitated, blinking down at the chips.

“Huh. Would you look at that,” he remarked, in a detached sort of way. “My hands are shaking.”

“Perhaps you should come sit down,” Jemma suggested. She wasn’t sure if it was a panic attack, or something much more simple than that, but she couldn’t resist the urge to reach out. 

She led him, still a little dazed, to the nearest seats – the lounges by the pool - and they sat side-on so they could face each other. Trip sighed and ran his hands over his face, leaning over his knees. 

“This is heavy,” he confessed. “I thought I was dealing with it but… maybe not. It’s just so out of the blue, you know? I don’t know. I shoulda seen it.”

“Garrett was your Supervising Officer too,” Jemma recalled. Trip nodded.

“He was always an intense dude,” he explained. “Very, you know, ‘hoo-rah’ with the whole Ops thing. All about resourcefulness and independence. Never rely on anyone or anything.” He snorted, and shook his head, dismissing whatever thought had next come to his head. 

“I’m sorry,” Jemma said, in sympathy. “I can’t imagine…” 

But when she thought on it, even just for that moment, fear once again clutched at her heart. She remembered Agent Weaver’s video message, about the attack on the Academy. She remembered the nightmares she’d been having about it, in vivid but confusing detail. It was not just Ward, after all, but all of Shield that was collapsing around them. At least her closest friends seemed mostly to be the victims, rather than the perpetrators of these atrocities, but that was a shallow comfort if ever there was one. 

“I’m sorry too,” Trip said. “I hope your friends get out okay.” 

After that, they sat in miserable silence for a stretch. Cicadas chirped. The pool lapped gently at the will of its pump. A gentle breeze and the deepening night slowly turned the air cold. Still, there was more to say to each other. 

“For what it’s worth, Agent Triplett,” Jemma offered eventually. “I think you did your grandfather’s legacy much prouder than Garrett’s, the way you’ve been acting lately. I don’t think I could have done that without you.” 

“Ah, come on, Simmons,” Trip replied. “You told Coulson to shove it when he wanted you to back off on Skye’s medical care, and you told Hand where to stick it when you thought she was Hydra. Just a few things, without me.” 

“I _meant,”_ Jemma corrected, “I don’t think I could have done it without being killed instantly.”

“Some of the bravest people in this world get killed instantly.” 

“Still. Best not.” 

“I know, I know what you mean,” Trip assured her, a smile that was pride and amusement at once, creeping onto his lips. “And all I meant was, that’s powerful stuff, for a SciTech kid. Don’t sell yourself short.” 

“Don’t you either,” Simmons warned. “Just because Garrett was a right tosser, doesn’t make you any less of a Shield agent.” 

Trip laughed. “A what?” 

“A Shield agent?” Jemma frowned. “Oh, a tosser. It’s British. It means he’s an asshole.”

“I know,” Trip assured her. “I’ve met British people before. Just none with your accent that have used that word. A ‘tosserrr’.” He overpronounced it to make a point, but Jemma’s expression was not quite as well-humoured as all that. 

“Well,” she pointed out. “I can’t exactly call him what he deserves to be called, now can I?”

Thoughts brought crashing down to earth and all the poisoned memories, Trip quickly sobered up as well. 

“No,” he agreed. “I don’t think I’ve even thought of those words yet.” 

“Me neither.”

There was another beat of silence; still heavy, still palpable, but not quite as miserable as the last. Trip took a deep breath and sighed it out, and offered Jemma the opening of his bag. 

“Cheeto?” 

Air, fat, and cheese flavouring wasn’t her usual fare, but there was nothing usual about this situation so Jemma took a Cheeto and chewed it as Trip continued.

“Don’t bother,” he suggested. “Don’t bother trying to think of the words. Garrett was a bad man, he’s a dangerous man, he’s a lot of things. But what he isn’t, is worth your time. I’m stuck with him in my head; don’t let him drag you down too, okay? Promise me?” 

“…I’ll try,” she promised. 

“I can take that,” Trip agreed. “Now, it’s getting late. Don’t you have some ducklings you’ve taken under your wing to order to bed?”

“Quite right.” Jemma puffed her chest with pride, then deflated a little when she glanced back at the pile of snacks she had to scoop back into her arms. Chances were, most of this would disappear tonight and little rest would be had, but little rest would be had anyway, and – at least as far as Fitz and Skye were concerned – misery, fear, and snack foods was better than just plain fear and misery. She gathered the food into her arms, prepared to part ways until Trip called her back for a moment. 

“You know,” he said, “I know some guys in the field. They’ve gone underground for now but if I can get in touch, I’ll get ‘em to check in on the Academy for you. Weaver’s good people. I’m sure she’ll have friends left on our side.” 

Jemma nodded. It was still so hard to face, but there it was, that encouraging smile. 

“Thanks,” she said. “And – you get some rest too. That’s a Doctor’s orders, Agent.”  
  
Trip nodded back. “Yes ma’am, I will. Good night.” 

“Night.” 

And they went their separate ways without another word.


	74. May & Fitz & Simmons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: May comforts FitzSimmons after hearing about Coulson's secret (S5).  
> This got away from me a bit and kinda turned into them comforting her?? Either way, enjoy.
> 
> Rshps: May & FitzSimmons, references romantic FitzSimmons and romantic Philinda. Set around 5x12/5x13.  
> TW: brief non-graphic references to themes of suicide incl euthanasia

Hours had passed since they’d first heard the news, and after a flurry of activity the sense of impending doom had settled into a heavy, ever-present beast, like a dull headache. There was only so much that could be done at once, after all, and so by evening – or so they guessed – there was a little too much time available to turn their thoughts back to what they’d heard.

Fitz sat silently in the corner of the control platform, keeping vigil over the little green line on his computer screen, that marked the difference between success and catastrophe. 

Simmons had all the scans she had managed to locate of Coulson’s injury, up on the big screen. The most recent, she had enlarged, and she stood before it and combed across the picture for some answer, some mistake. As she went her eyes slowly filled with tears, and every now and then she had to wipe them away with the back of her hand and start again. Dead tissue was dead tissue. There was nothing to be done. And yet, he was alive, so there had to be. If she could figure out the rate, the process, something, _anything,_ maybe she’d at least have a place to start.

Heavy boots on the metal stairs didn’t even shake them, each caught up in their own suffocating missions. It was the voice that finally jogged them with a little life. 

“Fitz,” May ordered. “You’re relieved.” 

“But-“ 

“Now.” 

“But I-“ 

“I said stand down.” May glared at him, and Fitz already felt so sick to the stomach he didn’t have enough spirit left for the jolt such a look would have usually sent through him. Wearily, he pushed the chair back from its desk and dragged himself to his feet. In truth he didn’t feel like putting up much of a fight, even though he felt he should. It had been a long day, and he was exhausted – but he knew part of the reason it was he that May had come to relieve, and not Jemma, was because of his psychosis. She was herding him away to rest for all their safety, not his own wellbeing. Well, not just his own wellbeing, at least.

“Are you gonna lock Coulson up too?” he challenged, if such a lackluster sentence could be considered a challenge. Part of him wanted to take back the words as soon as he’d spoken them, but to his surprise, they seemed to make May soften rather than order him back yet again. 

“Why would I do that?” 

“So he can’t go and die,” Fitz explained, surprised at the sharpness in his tone. “So you can control him. That’s what you want, right? You and Daisy?” 

“No,” May corrected. “We want him to live. Just like you do.”

Fitz shook his head. “’s not right. You can’t make a man want to live.” 

“Oh,” Jemma piped in, her voice crackling. “And I suppose we shouldn’t have stopped you any number of times you wanted to off yourself, should we?”  
  
“That’s different,” Fitz insisted.

“It’s not,” Jemma snapped. Her fingers tightened on the control pad in her hands. “Coulson is- is sick and we have to make him better.” 

“You said yourself, we can’t!”

“We can!” Jemma retorted. “We can, if we just- if I just- _figure something out – “_

“Like what, hm? Like TAHITI?” Fitz jabbed.

Jemma yelped. “Of _course_ I’m not going to do that, but-“

“It’s an _age old lesson,_ Jemma, you _don’t mess with death,”_ Fitz scolded. “Coulson’s already come back from the dead twice. If the man says he wants to go then he should go. Making him stay just because we don’t wanna lose him is- is- is _selfish.”_

May raised her hands to stop the fighting, and stepped in between the two of them. Like scolded dogs Fitz and Jemma shied away, their eyes drawing to her instead of each other, looking for guidance and yet, a little scared of what she had to say. May felt the words stick in her throat when she looked between them. She saw the hunch in Fitz’s shoulders, the tears in Jemma’s eyes. She saw the same grief that was eating at her own heart, in theirs as well; reflected in their words, and in the way they bickered about morality instead of feeling their feelings. 

Fortunately, this was only a surface argument, and for that at least, May was grateful. She could remember many a similar argument she’d had with Coulson – about herself, about him, about Shield, about all manner of things. They fought at odds in their heads while their hearts were still in the same place. Still, without care she knew those surface arguments could turn into deep-running cracks – to a war between hearts - as well as anything. It would not do to have these two miss each other like she missed Coulson in times like these. It would not do to have any more grief than was absolutely necessary, bearing down on them.

“I know it’s hard,” May said, eventually. “And I know there are a lot of strong feelings flying around the place right now, but we have to stick together and right now, our priority is keeping Coulson safe while we figure this out. We’ll have time for more complicated decisions after that. We need you to be a team right now – all of us, including Coulson. Can you do that?” 

By now, they were looking at each other, and when they realised she’d opened the floor for them to make up, they moved toward each other. Fitz ran his fingers down Jemma’s arms and around to embrace her. Jemma clasped his hand – the one with the ring – in her own. May hadn’t caught a verbal apology, but as Jemma closed her eyes and pressed herself into Fitz’s chest as if it were the only way she could breathe right, it was clear any surface injury their relationship had taken from this new development was well on its way to mending. 

May swallowed hard. She was growing increasingly accustomed to the rawness of emotion these days, but her body was still reluctant to deal with it. She wondered if she’d ever be able to show that soft, desperate vulnerability that Fitz still could, or lower her walls enough to let that yearning ache for safety drive her to press her face into her lover’s chest as Jemma did. To feel their heartbeat and know that they were still alive. 

She wondered, now, if she’d ever get that chance.

The scan Jemma had been studying loomed over them, over her, and the tendrils of dead tissue reaching out toward Coulson’s heart were the stuff of nightmares. They reminded her of Hydra, they reminded her of the time she’d been buried alive, they reminded her of all the uncontrollable chaos spewing out of the dark. They reminded her that she, too, was capable of committing atrocities and letting them be committed in the name of protecting Coulson. They made her fear what saving the world would come to. She could give him up if she had to, if she had a level head at the time, but she had no doubt it would break her yet again in a way from which she’d never truly recover and that – the inevitability of her own destruction - was a long, dark road to look down. 

Then, suddenly, the scan shrunk and disappeared before her eyes. The screen went black. 

“I thought it was time I should be getting to bed myself,” Jemma proposed. Her eyes were steady on May’s, though still a little tearful. “Best not linger on this now while our brains are too tired to do anything about it. Get a fresh start tomorrow.” 

May cleared her throat and nodded. “Yes. You’re right. Have Piper relieve you?”

“I’ll get her now.”

Jemma smiled, just ever so slightly, and headed back down the stairs the way she’d come. She still had the control pad in her hands, and she intended to keep it, especially when she caught May’s eyes drifting back to the blank screen for a second, desperate to make progress that could not be made. It was a relatable feeling, and one that was tugging at Jemma right now. In truth, she was not sure how much sleep she was going to get; it was more likely she’d be up perusing Coulson’s pictures and reading up on frostbite and apoptosis all night. Still, she figured; better her than May. 

“Fitz?” she pressed, when he did not join her. 

“Coming,” he said, and turned back to May. His fingers fiddled absently, anxiously with the balustrade. It was hard to pull the words from his chest. May reminded him so painfully of Jemma in moments like these, so hell-bent on keeping a stiff upper lip and soldiering through the pain, that as much as he wanted to respect her noble efforts, a large part of him wanted to reach out and hug her. Instead, he tried for simple, meaningful eye contact and some hopefully well-chosen words.

“I’m sorry about before,” he said. “I don’t think you’re selfish. And I don’t think Daisy was, either, for wanting to stop him earlier. I want to save Coulson too, I’m just… not sure what that looks like.” 

“I understand,” May replied. “I appreciate that. Get some sleep, Fitz.”

Fitz nodded. May nodded back, and only then did he turn to leave. 

She watched with a quiet, salvaged satisfaction in her heart as FitzSimmons finally left the room, together.


	75. Fitz & May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fitz + "Taking medication doesn't make you weak."  
> Also written for Mother's Day, and for the [May is for Mothers](http://leofitznetwork.tumblr.com/post/173795460685/leofitznetwork-monthly-challenge-may-is-for) challenge at [the Leo Fitz Network](http://leofitznetwork.tumblr.com/). Enjoy!  
> Set during S2. Hurt/comfort. Fitz & May.

When May heard the knock at her door, she wasn’t expecting it to be Fitz on the other side. He didn’t tend to voluntarily seek out interaction with anyone these days. Still, she was glad to see him – even if the way he curled his shoulders and looked at the floor was so different than before. He’d always been a little bit shy, but when it came to his work, he’d been just as proud; defensive, even a show-off at times. She hadn’t even really noticed, that unstable coexistence was part of him, until it had disappeared. 

“Can I talk to you?” he asked, barely more than a mumble. 

“Of course. Come in.” 

It was curiosity and sympathy in equal parts that made May stand behind her desk, welcoming Fitz into the room with his armfuls of blueprints. Fitz met her eyes asking for permission for something, and when she provided no objection, he moved her chairs about until he could spread his blueprints over a bumpy self-assembled surface. He’d drawn a plane. An impressive one. She perused it carefully for a moment, before Fitz called back her attention. 

“It’s- it’s a plane,” he explained. “Bigger than the Bus. Better. More… More… Better, it’s just, it’s better.” 

He waved dismissively over his shoulder at something she couldn’t see, and then quickly shuffled through the blueprint sheets to find the one he was after. Perhaps he had been contemplating explaining the many features of the plane to her, May speculated, but upon realising how hard it would be, had decided to skip ahead through the presentation. She waited patiently, until she realised that he was holding a pen out to her. The sheet now at the top of the heap was some kind of control panel – the cockpit, she realised.

“You’re the pilot,” he said. “It’s yours.” 

May took the pen. “You want my opinion? My thoughts on this?” 

Fitz nodded. He watched the tip of the pen. May pulled off the cap but couldn’t quite bring herself to unnecessarily mark his meticulously drawn plans. How long must these have taken? So instead she handed the pen back and simply pointed out: 

“It’s good. But if you can get this and this closer together, that would be better. Also, if this switch could be on the left –“ 

“I can do that.” Fitz smiled, hopeful, and made a few scribbles on his plan anyway. “Anything else?” 

“I suppose Coulson wants a cupholder?” May let her lip curl up in a smile and Fitz snorted. It was not so long ago that he and Coulson had theorized adding all manner of ridiculous unnecessary installations to the Bus; it seemed only logical that, even in their more thrifty circumstances, at least some amenities should remain. Gleefully, he made a note of this. 

Then he looked over his shoulder, at nothing again, and frowned. Scowling back down at the blueprints before him, his grip tightened on the pencil until the nib pressing into the paper snapped. May frowned too. 

“You okay?” 

Fitz waved her off, cursing as he erased the nonsensical spattering of markings he’d just made. “Tired, that’s all.” 

“Have you taken your meds?” 

“N-No.” Fitz ducked his head. May’s eyes narrowed slightly and he felt the need to explain himself. “I don’t like it. It makes me feel gross.”

“Gross how?” May put a hand to her stomach. “Gross here?” 

“No. Gross. Bad.” Fitz struggled to say what he meant. There must be something, the word for it, the word for what he felt when other people looked at him, when they saw him taking medication or talking to himself or rocking or stuttering. When the doctors talked slowly to him as if they thought he might not understand. It reminded him – it reminded him of how Ward and his dad and that lot had always looked at him. “Weak.”

May raised her eyebrows a little.

“You think taking your medication makes you weak?” she asked him. “Makes you a worse Agent?  
  
Fitz shrugged. He wanted to say how he didn’t think that was possible, how being like this was about as useless as he could get as far as being an Agent was concerned, but try as he might he couldn’t object: he liked the sympathy. His body and mind lapped it up. It had been so long, he thought, since somebody had even tried to understand. 

“Fitz,” May went on, her tone concerned and a little scolding. “Do you know how many other people on this base take medication?”

Fitz shrugged again. 

“Do you know I used to take medication just like yours?” 

That stopped him. Puzzled him. He looked up, fixating on May’s face and checking for tells – people were lying more and more to him these days, and he wasn’t always good at knowing when. But she seemed earnest. That didn’t fit. How could that crawling pity, that sense of helplessness, how could that reconcile with one of the strongest women he knew? How could anyone dare look at her like that? 

“You remember The Cavalry?” May pressed. 

Fitz nodded, a little hesitantly. He still felt bad, for being one of thousands of people who’d once made jokes out of that. He’d still not apologised. Not technically. But he did remember. 

“After that, I went through… a very bad time,” May continued. 

This made Fitz feel worse. He wasn’t much used to her confessing that anything was a _very bad time._ If he knew stoics – and he did – that was more than an understatement.

“I did a lot of things to get through it,” May explained. “I did meditation, I did exercise, I did all those things – it wasn’t until much later I had medication. I thought like you. I thought it would make me look weak, make other people think badly of me. Now I think it was what helped me get strong again. I had a life once, and it fell apart because of what happened in Bahrain. Sometimes – sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d taken the advice of a man I once knew, and tried it a little earlier. Maybe I wouldn’t have lost… what I did.” 

Fitz blinked, bewildered and a little overwhelmed. He’d never heard such a string of words come from May’s lips, not authentically at any rate, and that was alarming enough. The thought of her, though – _her_ , of all people - having her body, her life beyond her control too; having a blanket of depression that was perhaps even heavier than his; it was a sobering thought.

It had sobered her too, apparently, and she drew a rattling breath.

“Look, all I’m saying is, medication is a tool,” May clarified. “You know for a fact it helps you, and only you know how much. Only you can decide if it’s worth it in the end, but what matters is: it’s okay to need that help. It’s okay. I promise.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” May swallowed, hard. “Don’t let yourself lose what I lost just because people look at you differently now. They’ll do that anyway. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take care of yourself.” 

The way May held his gaze when she finished sent a chill down Fitz’s spine. It was as though he’d witnessed some sort of witching hour, a realm just a little outside reality. Yet the way her eyes pierced through him was as real and as May as anything he’d ever felt. More than anything, it told him he was loved here. He was loved far and away above the value of his sketches or his words or even his badge. He was loved beyond any sense of weakness that he might be thinking they perceived.

But he wasn’t sure how to tell May he’d figured out any of this, or how much he appreciated it, so he simply nodded instead.

“I will.” And gathered up his sketches. “Thanks for your help.” 

“If you need anything else,” May said, “let me know.”


	76. May & Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "bi Daisy comes out to May", for marvelthismarvelthat and two enthusiastic Anons :)  
> Hurt/comfort, mild angst with a happy ending, Rated T, May & Daisy, discussion of Daisy/OFC and hint of potential Daisy/Piper.
> 
> This works as a second part/sister ficlet to [Ch.33 of this collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7295626/chapters/22057805), in which Daisy comes out to Coulson, but it can stand alone. All you need to really know is, Daisy crashed with a ladyfriend during her vigilante days, and now that she's back at Shield she wants to make sure Hayley gets home safe.
> 
> I am still accepting prompts (platonic and otherwise), but will be prioritising those that help with my [bingo squares](http://theclaravoyant.tumblr.com/post/174958815476/prompt-me-mcubingo-edition).
> 
> Anyway, without further ado -

Daisy hovered in the passageway by the hanger, flipping her phone anxiously s she paced. She’d technically said goodbye to Hayley this morning, but part of her still wanted to run over and grab her. Give her one last kiss. Then again, another part of her wanted to run away into the mountains and never be seen or heard from again, and yet another at wanted to induct Hayley into Shield and kick ass across the world together, so what did she know?

She knew that Hayley couldn’t stay, and this she repeated to herself firmly to drown out the daydreams. She knew that this was the right thing to do, and the safest. She’d already made up her mind on that – especially since she knew May had been put in charge of Hayley’s escort. Or so she’d thought.

Despite her mantras, a renewed sense of uncertainty coursed through Daisy’s veins as she watched May farewell the driver of the big black SUV, tap the window, and walk away. Resisting the urge to bounce on her feet, and struggling to modulate her voice as it strained with fear and anger, Daisy queried:

“You’re not going?”

“No,” May told her simply, turning to stand beside Daisy so that they could both watch as the hangar doors slowly opened. She could already anticipate the words about to leap out of Daisy’s throat, and pre-emptively cut them off.

“I’m the Assistant Director, Daisy,” she pointed out. “Shield doesn’t run itself.”

“So, what, you send _my girlfriend_ off with Agent Number Five?”

“He’s Number 7-5, actually,” May corrected, “and you don’t need to worry. Davis is a good agent, and a sensitive man. He’ll make sure Hayley gets home safe. He’s already given her chocolate and tissues in the car.”

Daisy hung her head, listlessly turning her phone as the fire evaporated from her veins. Behind that lock screen was her last conversation with Hayley; she’d been meaning to delete it all day. And it was in that moment Daisy was forced to own up to the source of her explosiveness, her anger, even her fear. She was feeling like a coward, and taking it out on someone else.

“’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to get snappy before, I’m sure Davis is a good guy, I just want the best for Hayley. If anything happened to her…”

“I understand,” May promised.

“No, but I mean like-“

“I _understand_ , Daisy,” May repeated, turning to face her at last. “Not least because you yelled it just now. You and Hayley were together, you felt safe, maybe even a little in love. You feel like, if nothing else, you owe it to her to keep her safe – even if that means making her leave. I understand that.”

Her eyes were heavy with ghosts and Daisy had a strong and sudden feeling she was talking about Andrew. There were still so many layers there that she had never unpacked, but what she did recognise was the pain of driving people away for fear of hurting them. She wondered if May regretted it. But if she regretted it, why was she letting Daisy do the exact same thing now? Was it the same, or was she just projecting? Or was May the one who was projecting? Did it even matter? After all, the deed was done. The car was gone. There was nothing and nobody there but May and Daisy and the moment of vulnerability they’d suddenly found themselves standing in.

Daisy swallowed hard.

“And- and the other part?” she ventured. “The part where… she’s a her?”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“I- I kind of want to, if that’s okay?”

May’s expression softened, the pain fading from her eyes. She gestured down the hall, and offered: “Come to my office, we’ll have a drink. You can tell me as much or as little as you want.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Daisy agreed. She could use a drink, or two, or five, today. And as her feet began walking without needing direction toward May’s office, Daisy found that it was easier, much more of a relief than usual, to offload the weight of coming out from her chest.

“I’m bisexual,” she began. “I’ve known since I was, I dunno, probably twelve…”

She skipped through her life, picking and choosing moments that she hadn’t reflected on much before. With many more boyfriends than girlfriends, it had stopped coming up recently, but as she talked she reflected on more and more of the good times with Hayley. Not just the safety but the fun, and the love. Sharing ice-cream. Visiting the beach. Running for cover in the rain. Those were memories she could always cherish, not just the messy, heartbreaking, cowardly end. Maybe she’d never truly know in the end if she did the right thing, but that wasn’t exactly the same as having regrets: a bittersweet revelation, but one that left her smiling as she drained the last of her scotch.

This brought Daisy back to reality; to the fact that May, who didn’t particularly enjoy a lot of talking at the best of times, had sat through a winding and rambling highlight reel of her life story; and to the fact that she had almost definitely taken up enough of the Assistant Director of Shield’s valuable time. Daisy stood and cleared her throat, looking for a place to put her glass. May held out a hand to take it.

“Are you sure you’re ready to go?” she offered.

“Yeah,” Daisy assured her. “I’m fine. It was good to talk though. Thanks for listening.”

“Thank you for sharing,” May replied. “I won’t tell anybody, of course.”

“’s okay,” Daisy said with a shrug. “It’s not really a secret for me, and all the important people know now anyway.”

May nodded, and a smile touched Daisy’s lips. She waited for May to take a seat at the large oak desk in case there was something else, but it was not until just before she turned to leave, that May had one more thing to add.

“You asked me what I think about you loving girls,” she reminded Daisy, calling her back from moving toward the door. “Not that it matters, but what I have to say to that is, that I think you should meet Agent Piper, from Davis’ unit. It sounds to me like the two of you might have something to talk about.”

“Oh?” Daisy raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly is that?”

“It means talk to her yourself, and figure it out.”

May gestured smugly to the door. Daisy scoffed, and rolled her eyes with a reluctant smile, and considered herself dismissed.


End file.
